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Tony eyes the trooper cruisers and without saying anything about it, aims for the narrow space that exists between two cruisers that are parked facing one another. It’s the weakest part of the chain...the weakest link.
“Brace yourself, Stan,” he says. “We’re about to ram them.”
About a half dozen Texas State Troopers are now running for their lives. A few have taken positions along both sides of the road. A few of them are aiming their service revolvers at them while a couple others are aiming their riot shotguns at the speeding Flower’s N’ Fads company vehicle.
Following close on their tail are the two trooper cruisers that have been up their ass for a short while now. That is until the troopers behind the wheels hit the brakes or else take a chance on colliding with their own cruisers or getting shot or both.
Guns are triggered. Bullets and buckshot ricochet and pierce the van’s side panels. But Stan and Tony aren’t concerned with that as they proceed full speed ahead, the engine revving, and the RPMs redlining. Stan has a tight grip on the grab bar mounted to the van interior above the passenger side door. Both of Tony’s hands have a death grip on the steering wheel. It’s a do-or-die scenario.
“Hang on, Stanley,” Tony shouts.
“Fucking Thelma and Louise,” Stan barks. “Butch Cassidy and the fucking Sundance Kid.”
The front of Raymond’s van greets the front grills of two trooper cruisers.
# # #
“Nice fucking going, Tony,” Stan says, his now bruised face pressed against the airbag.
“It was supposed to work,” Tony says, his face equally pressed against the steering column airbag so that his words sound like “it wa ‘pos ta urk.”
The meatheads would immediately exit the badly fucked up van and take their chances on foot. But instead, they find themselves hanging upside down, the two doors so crushed there’s no way in hell anyone is getting them open without the use of a Jaws-of-Death.
“All we managed to do was flip over,” Stan says.
“What was your first clue, Stan,” Tony says. “Make a body check. Anything broken?”
“I don’t think so,” Stan says. “Just my heart if I have to guess.”
That’s when about six troopers surround the van, their weapons aimed at the two meatheads. Every bit of glass on the accordioned van is shattered. It means Tony and Stan can hear every word the troopers say. They can also hear their chest-mounted radio chatter.
“Don’t move,” says one of the troopers.
“If you insist,” Tony says. “We’re stuck inside this tuna can. You might think about getting us out now.”
“Just shut the fuck up,” the trooper demands.
He then gives the orders for his men to retrieve the jaws of death from the trunk of his cruiser.
“If either one of these men even so much as farts, I want you to blow his brains out,” he adds for drama’s sake. Or so Tony surmises. “They’re already banged up as it is. You’d just be putting them out of their misery.”
“Nice guy,” Stan mumbles.
“His voice sounds familiar,” Tony says.
When the trooper bends at the knees and sticks his head in the passenger side window where the glass used to be, Stan and Tony glance at him out the corners of their eyes.
“Oh, shit,” Tony says.
“Nice to see you boys again,” says the same Texas State Trooper who stopped them for speeding and driving erratically just a matter of hours ago. “Kind of figured you gentlemen were up to no good, especially when your boss finally reported the van stolen.”
“We can explain,” Stan says, but the words are as pathetic as the muffled voice that’s saying them.
Then, another uniformed trooper joins the party. In his hands, he’s holding a mechanical device that, with its two sharp metal pincers, looks like an overgrown robotic insect.
“We’re ready, Sergeant,” Jaws of Life Trooper says.
“Go to it, Harvey. And if a hand or one of their limbs must be sacrificed for the sake of saving their precious lives, don’t hesitate to go for it.”
“Roger that, Seargent,” Jaws of Life Trooper says while assuming a shit-eating grin.
The sergeant stands and backs off. Jaws of Life Trooper clamps the life-saving device onto the passenger side door. The pincers are practically touching Stan’s stuck right hand.
“Don’t worry assholes,” he says. “This won’t hurt a bit.”