Still “wearing” the remnants of the very expensive dress, Madison wailed madly as she shuffled down the main stairway, into the dining room, and over to the zinc-countered bar, tears further streaking her already ruined eyes.
Reaching her fat arm across and under the bar to grab a shiny new bottle of Stoli, her exposed belly pushed up and over the countertop, the cold metal making her shiver, plush body quivering.
Madison filled a cut-glass tumbler almost to the rim, with the almost oily, clear liquid. The smell of it alone, was enough to send warm tingles down her spine. She had never quite recovered from her day at the bar, so it went down in a couple gulps like so much water.
Thirty minutes later, the vodka bottle lay in a dry pile of glass upon the dining room floor. Madison, surely blacked out, had retreated to the kitchen pantry, sitting upon the floor with a bag of chocolate chips between her wobbly thighs. Her hands and mouth were covered in melted brown residue. She had even wiped some errantly across her swollen gut.
Another twenty minutes of gluttony, and Madison’s insides began to protest. Enough food, she thought. Time to grab a beer for the road and go to her fucking twenty-eighth birthday party, for christsakes.
Corona in hand, Madison swerved her way dangerously down the wide residential streets of their upscale neighborhood. This was her last chance to find some sense and turn around, or even get out and walk back, before she hit a major arterial and would get called in for DUI for certain.
She was too far gone, though. Subconsciously unable to confront her birthday party in this or any other state, for that matter, Madison’s hedonism drove her towards the McDonalds she had visited earlier in the afternoon.
Steven glanced at his watch for what seemed to him like the thousandth time that evening. Where was she? At this point he was as much worried, as he was annoyed and frustrated. She had done some outrageous things before, but this made absolutely no sense. She had been talking about this party for weeks, as though thinking about nothing else, and now she doesn’t show up? He felt guilty and at fault for leaving her at home. He had even driven back to the house an hour ago, to pick her up, having been gone for less than an hour and a half, but Madison was nowhere to be found and her car was missing from the garage. His many calls and text messages had gone unanswered.
The bright pearlescent face of the Rolex Mariner, read 10:45 PM, and Steven was beginning to fear for the worst when an attractive blonde waitress approached his table in the rented out lounge space, to inform him that a phone call was waiting for him with the maître de.
Gulping down a final sip of cabernet, Steven followed the pretty young woman through the darkened space, past many confused looking friends, to the swanky club’s lobby. He admired the fine lines of the waitress’s rear-end as it moved, slinking from side to side with each step.
Pulled from his daydream, by the attention of a man with a mustache and a cordless phone on a tray, Steven almost hated to pick up the receiver, absolutely certain that it would be bad news. He was absolutely right.
At approximately 10:23PM on the night of Friday, September 3, Officer Robert Guevara of the Miami-Dade Police Department observed a white, late-model Mercedes sedan (license plate #981XXH) driving at a high rate of speed through the intersection of 4th St and Deltona.
Noticing also that the vehicle appeared to be swerving, as though the driver was having difficulty maintaining a lane, Officer Guevara flicked on his lights and proceeded to give pursuit.
When the vehicle continued after three blocks with the Guevara signaling a stop, he engaged his siren and decreased the follow distance between his patrol car and the suspect vehicle. With headlights shining through to the interior of the Mercedes, Guevara was able to identify the driver as female, possibly Hispanic, with a heavy build.
Madison was positively freaking out! The cops were after her. The game was up. Why was she running? What the fuck was she doing? She had absolutely no idea at this point. Things were absolutely out of control. Planting her foot down hard on the accelerator, the powerful car shot forward down the strip-mall lined street. She took one last swig of her beer, before tossing the bottle out of the driver’s side window.
Guevara had already called in for backup, in pursuit of what he now strongly suspected to be a DUI, judging from the beer bottle, thrown from the suspect’s window, that whizzed past his car, shattering on the pavement. The chase had escalated to about 70 mph on a busy Friday night in Miami, and Guevara decided it was time to bring it to a swift end, before bystanders were put in any more danger.
Her drunken brain drawing a blank on how to proceed in this fantastic scenario, Madison locked her eyes on the golden arches visible just then about six blocks ahead down the strip. It was her birthday, and she needed a fucking Big Mac.
Coming fuzzily over the cruiser’s radio-set was an O.K. from the air unit for Officer Guevara to move in and terminate the high-speed pursuit. Other units had already blocked off all intersecting streets, and placed a spike strip about two quarters of a mile ahead, should he fail to stop the suspect vehicle by other means. A spiking at this speed could easily prove to have a deadly effect.
So Close now, images of French-fries and chicken nuggets floated through Madison’s detached mind. The police car was almost in her back seat now, the luxurious leather cabin aglow with red and blue lights. She leaned in over the steering wheel, engorged stomach pressing firmly into its lower curve. Madison was practically naked, the tattered dress mostly deteriorated at this point, only her lacey panties and overstressed bra maintained a speck of decency. She spilled out of the German-engineered driver’s seat, hips bumping into the console and cup holder alike, shining brown eyes agleam in her fat face.
This was it, the first time that Officer Robert Guevara would actually execute a “PIT” maneuver in the field. He remembered spinning out on the blacktop of the training course at the academy, as a few beads of cold sweat formed on his brow. Ok. He was going in on the count of three: 1, 2, …
“We’re here!” Madison chimed to no one in particular, as she yanked the wheel in a sudden, violent movement to the left, badly overshooting the Mcdonald’s parking lot entry in a skidding turn. Had it not been the terrific suspension designed by those boys in Baden, the car certainly would have flipped. Regardless the front-left tire exploded on impact with the raised curb, which also made a joke of the bumper.
“Woah,” Guevara said loudly to himself, turning around in his seat to watch the white Mercedes fly off the curb, clearing a row of shrubs, only to touch down briefly in a parking lot, before barreling into the plate glass window of a lighting store.
Not far enough down the road, the four officers manning the spike strip began to grow increasingly concerned by the failure of the speeding patrol car to show any signs of slowing down before them. Seconds later, applying brakes far too late, distracted by the spectacular crash behind him, Guevara shot over the spikes at about 60mph, spun out, rolled twice, and came to rest overturned in the middle of the next intersection.
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