Rickety Roundabout

         Dust spit up in a thick cloud as a pale gray Plymouth rattled and jostled down the leeward side of a steep slope; the car's narrow, white wall tires bounced along a pothole-ridden dirt road. Running endlessly along the right side of the road was a sea of soy, and to the left, a wide river lined with tall, thinly pine trees. The tree line was admired by the passenger of the speeding Plymouth, a rough-faced man in a white dress shirt, the sleeved rolled back to his brawny elbows, a crumpled gray fedora slanted forward, muddy shoes, midnight blue suspenders, and dusty black slacks.
    "I like trees," the man said with a smile.
    The driver, dressed similarly to his tree-loving friend, and just as rugged looking, as if he'd spent the better part of his life brawling and drinking, and neither habits keeping on good terms with him, stared pityingly at his friend. "You take now as the time to say that?"
    "Why not Skip? What's wrong with appreciating something simple and pretty?"
    Skip shook his head, amazed, as always, by Gus's simple-mindedness, and thumbing over his shoulder, said, "Gus you dumb fool, you forget about them already?"
    Gus looked out the oval-shaped rear windshield and watched a short line of police cars, lights flashing, and sirens calling, come roaring over the top of the hill they had just passed. "What about them?" Gus asked, as if it was nothing.
    "What about it?" Skip echoed. "Hell Gus, we been friends long enough so I guess I should say something." Skip paused to check his cracked side mirror. "Try not to take this wrong, but there are times when you can be a helluva short-sighted rummie sometimes."
    "That's a damn lie Skip," Gus refuted sharply. "I ain't had a drop since breakfast."
    Before Skip could argue, a shrill hiss of bullets shredded into and through the sides of Plymouth.
    "Shit, they at it again," Skip shouted, lowering his head some, so as not to take a shot to the head.
    Gus curled into a ball, arms shielding his head and face as shotgun pelts blasted through the rear windshield, spewing shards of glass everywhere.
    "Shit Skip," Gus bellowed from behind his arms. "I think they planning on taking the damn car apart. I think they mean to kill us this time."
    Skip nodded at a double-barreled shotgun lying on the floor between Gus's feet. "Take that big son of a bitch and shut them the hell up some!"
    Gus shook his head emphatically. "I ain't sticking my goddamn head out the window!"
    More bullets chewed through the back of the car, the metallic pings resonating through the inside.
    "Dammit Gus," Skip roared. "Get your saggy ass moving out there with that scatter gun. You wanna walk to the state border?"
    Gus shook his head and rubbed his hands vigorously, fighting the instincts that begged him not to do it, but Skip was right, and right was right, or so Gus believed as he reached down and picked up the shotgun. "All right dammit, but just make sure to keep from running us off the road."
    "You just shoot," Skip snapped back. "I'll mind the damn road well enough. And don't miss! You only got two shots."
    "I ain't never missed anything I aimed at," Gus defended as he angled himself through the open window.
    The car, which had been surprisingly smooth riding a moment ago, was again bouncing rough against the shallow pits dotting the road, and as Gus pointed his shotgun at the first police car, he grumbled at his unsteady aim. "Keep it steady Skip!" he shouted.
    Skip frowned as he glanced sideways at Gus's midsection, thinking about how nice it would be to throw a punch at his groin. "You rather I pull over for you?" he hollered back.
    Gus didn't say a word. He was busy focusing the heavy end of the shotgun, and hoping to win a calm spell in the road's bumpiness. When it finally came, Gus grit his dirty teeth and squeezed the first of the shotgun's twin triggers. A heavy blast erupted from the left barrel, blowing out the rear passenger window. A cluster of black pelts tore into the face of the leading police car, causing the driver to swerve hard to the left. Losing control, the police car flipped violently onto its side and slid into the nearby river.
    Skip looked out the driver side window and stared in awe of the wrecked police car as it started to sink. "Shit Gus, you actually hit him."
    "Of course I did," Gus hollered over the roof of the car.
    Gunfire from the hot, flashing end of a Thompson blasted from the next police car in line, its rounds pitting against the road and hind end of the Plymouth.
    "Dammit," Gus grumbled as he took aim again. If there was one thing he couldn't stand in all the world, it was being shot at, and it was comforting for him to know that Skip always felt the same.
    Taking what he felt was a solid aim, Gus squeezed the second trigger, but just as he did, the Plymouth's front left tire slammed hard into another pothole, and Gus's aim went low. When the shot fired, the car's rear right fender blew apart, as did the tire underneath it. The wounded Plymouth was quick to start swaying wide as the rubber of the tire peeled away in large black chunks.
    "What in the hell did you do Gus?" Skip cried out, anxiously fighting the wheel.
    Gus immediately retreated back inside, a sheepish look on his dust-covered face. "I think I took off a tire."
    "You think?" Skip shouted, giving Gus a wide-eyed look. "What in the hell you mean, you think? Shit Gus!"
    The car swerved hard to the left then skidded awkwardly to the right.
    Gus almost began crying. "I shot the tire off. I shot the damn tire off! I killed it! I'm sorry Skip. You not mad at me, are you?"
    "Gus, you son of a bitch," Skip roared, moments before losing control on a sharp right turn. The car wheeled uncontrollably into a vicious fishtail until ultimately its back end drifted off the road and down a low ravine. With a sputter and a jump, the car came to a stop.
    "What now Skip?" Gus asked plainly, wiping the dust from his face with the sweaty sleeve of his shirt.
    "We get our asses out and leg it across that field," Gus sneered before kicking open the driverside door.
    Together Gus and Skip bolted out of the overheated Plymouth and hurried off like frightened field mice into a nearby cornfield. Some distance behind them were the ever-present sirens of the police, and just how long the two men had before the law would find its way upon them, they didn't know, but so long as it was far enough behind that they could make it to the state line, they didn't care.
    "I thought I said not to run the car off the dang road," Gus argued as he ran between the cornstalks.
    "I thought you said you never missed," Skip argued back even louder.
    A thunderclap echoed across the countryside. The rainy season had come at last.