Pursuit

Jaime Salem loved this car. The Mitsubishi Lancer's sport-tuned suspension, chrome alloy wheels, and modified 230 horsepower engine were an auto enthusiast's delight. Its beautiful handling and the roar from under the hood made him giddy. Not to mention the paint job; jet black, with two thick red stripes going over the top. It's an absolute shame, he thought, that this beast of a vehicle isn't mine.

He had hot-wired the vehicle after spotting it in the parking lot of a strip mall. There was a police cruiser parked nearby, the officer therein watching him intently. The Lancer's owner, of stereotypical Japanese descent, had just exited a store and was walking to his vehicle. It was ten o'clock in the morning; broad daylight. But none of these factors bothered Salem one bit. In fact, he preferred it this way. It was the reason he stole the car in the first place; so that he would be spotted doing so, and more importantly, pursued.

Salem was addicted to the thrill of the chase. Literally. He had spent the past three years in a government-run institution, where he was expected to take pills that did nothing and sit in circles with other "addicts" so they could talk about feelings. But now, as he blazed down Second Avenue, wiggling and weaving through traffic, with the cop from the strip mall and her cohorts in hot pursuit, he recalled with a smile how he spent his time in the asylum: indulging in his passion for the chase. In the middle of the night, when all the patients were supposed to be locked in their rooms, Salem found a way out. He would throw something at one of the nighttime orderlies, if they hadn't seen him already, and when they started towards him, he'd run. Chaos always ensued. The entire staff would be in disarray, running up stairs and through hallways like little mice, searching for him, their piece of cheese. And when they thought they had looked everywhere, when they had almost lost hope, he would stealthily sneak his way back to his room, trying desperately to suppress his laughter. This signaled the end of his game for the night. They'd have him in a straitjacket by morning, but he couldn't care less. In his mind he'd won, as he did every time, because they never caught him. Jaime Salem never got caught.

A red sedan appeared in front of him and jolted him back to the present. He braked slightly and turned hard into the left lane, evading what would've been a terrible accident. He pushed the accelerator down further and slipped around a tanker. Disturbing crash noises came from behind; he'd just lost at least one cop. A quick glance in the rear view mirror confirmed three police casualties and a jackknifed tanker, the wreck effectively blocking all three lanes behind. Salem's smile faded a little at the thought that the game would end so soon. But then the remaining three cruisers, including Strip Mall Cop, somehow slipped over the median and avoided the pandemonium. The chase was still on.

Police helicopters soon joined in the fun. Over the growling of the Lancer's engine, he could hear an officer speaking to him from above. "Sir, you cannot escape. You are being ordered to cease and desist. Bring the vehicle to a halt immediately."

"Screw you!" he shouted, with bright eyes and an ear-to-ear smile that may have broken a Guinness world record had someone been there to record its size. Not that they could hear him; the choppers were too far away and the car's windows were up. The impersonal, robotic voice from the chopper reminded Salem of how they would address him at the asylum over the PA system, when he was on the loose at night. It also reminded him of the importance of winning the game in this instance, other than for the reputation he had to uphold. If the police caught him, he could be sent back to that place. He frowned at the thought. It was too clean, too still, too dark, too boring. He couldn't take it; there was no way he'd go back. And besides, how would he introduce himself in those circle meetings? Hi, I'm Jaime, and I'm a......... chase-o-holic? He chuckled loudly at the thought.

They were approaching 183rd Street. Salem considered his options. If he stayed on Second, it would take the chase to the expressway. Too much space, he thought. Too easy. Instead, he turned right onto 183rd, using the handbrake to slide around the turn and preserve speed that would be lost had he turned conventionally. But he made his decision too late. The Lancer slid too far over and ended up on the left side of the median, heading into oncoming traffic. This made the challenge many times harder, but Salem's smile just got bigger as he shook to the left and to the right, dodging car after car, accident after accident, flirting with Death several times every second, and somehow always managing to avoid its fatal embrace. The cops, of course, were good little boys, staying on the right side of the road. But Strip Mall Cop was a brave soul. She whipped her cruiser around the turn like a pro and followed directly in Salem's wake. Salem couldn't help but admire Strip Mall Cop's courage and skill, but the aforementioned "wake" was a bit of a problem. While he was trying so hard to stay alive, she was simply following the path he was clearing. She could drive faster than him, because there wasn't as much dodging to do. Strip Mall Cop was gaining on Salem.

Salem only saw one solution to this, and acted without hesitation. He crushed the accelerator under his foot.

The Lancer rocketed forward, using every ounce of its power. Salem was about to burst with excitement. It took all his concentration to focus on dodging cars, which he was now just barely doing. The car kept gaining speed, the game kept getting harder, and Salem kept his foot on the gas and his eyes on the road. He was grazing a few of them now, just scraping by, trading paint. Then he could feel the car bumping others. He was losing control, slowly, and no amount of skill or luck or passion for the thrill of the chase could stop it.

As he ducked around a limousine, the three-pointed star of a Mercedes-Benz filled his vision. There was no way around it. "It's over," he said to himself, and even as he said this, the two cars collided. The Lancer was lighter and went airborne, some ten feet above the asphalt. It landed, bounced, and landed again, rolling sideways down the street, until it finally came to a halt, upside down, wheels spinning, in the middle of an intersection. Nitrous oxide gas filled the cockpit, and gasoline was everywhere in and around the vehicle. A lighter, papers, and other things that were in the center compartment had fallen out and were strewn throughout the car. The airbags had deployed, surrounding Salem in the same dull, clean, horrid white he had hated so much in the asylum. His profuse bleeding added a little color to the situation. All his limbs were either destroyed or pinned down, save one; his right arm, which he used to move the disgustingly pristine airbag so he could see through the shattered window.

Strip Mall Cop was on the other side. She looked at him in amazement that he was still alive and moving. "Stay still, sir," she said. "We'll have you out in no time."

"Why?" replied Salem weakly. "So you can send me back?"

"Just stay still, please. You're badly wounded."

Salem eyed the lighter. "Not gonna happen." He reached for it.

"Sir, you need medical attention! You need to stop moving! You could worsen your injuries!"

"Screw you, cop." He grinned. "You're not catchin' Jaime Salem." He grasped the lighter.

Now Strip Mall Cop noticed it, and the gasoline that was everywhere. "Sir, what are you doing?"

"No one catches Jaime Salem." He put his thumb on the trigger.

"Sir!"

His eyes were glowing with victory. Now, it was over. Now he could never go back to that clean place. No one would ever catch Jaime Salem.

"Jaime Salem never gets caught," he whispered, and thumbed the trigger.