Three smug-looking cops are accosting a tall, rather handsome young man with slick medium length black hair, a slim face, and dark malachite eyes. He’s quite dapper in a black suit and dresscoat with tails that reach down to the back of his knees. His wrists are tied together with raggedy ropes and pressed against his chest. The expression on his face reflects indifference as he gazes into the sky, ignoring his captors. The sun sits in the sky at about 3 pm. Glancing at the street, he notices that traffic in this part of town is scarce as usual. The cops shuffle their feet as they nudge him along towards their squad car. He remains quiet and does not resist.

Suddenly, the officers’ eyes are directed towards the road as a loud engine approaches. A rusty brown station wagon swerves into view and skids to a stop just before the right front wheel is fully on the sidewalk. The three police’s mouths gape in surprise as the young man’s lips curl into a faint smirk. Out of the jalopy jumps a beautiful young woman with caramel skin wearing a black blazer dress. Her dark brown hair is pulled back into a ponytail with a few loose strands hanging about. The policemen let go of their hostage and reach for their guns. Unfortunately for them, they are not fast enough. The woman kicks one in the groin with her platform high heel and chops the other over the shoulder with a swift hand. The third manages to pull out his weapon, but she quickly jabs him in the neck with her elbow and cracks his arm over her bare knee. As the men groan on the ground, she looks to the young man.

“Some ‘slick sick whip’ you’ve got there, Constance.” he huffs in his British accent.

Constance’s eyebrows raise in slight annoyance. She may have told her partner over the communicator to ‘look out for the slickest, sickest whip you’ve ever seen,’ or something of that nature, but did it really even matter anymore at this point?

“Get in,” she breathes, flicking her head towards the car as the injured officers begin regaining their composure.

Her partner gestures down at his tied wrists and shrugs.

Rolling her eyes, she yanks open the front passenger door, causing the handle to break slightly. Before he can fully scoff at the embarrassing mishap, she kicks him in the rear, sending him flying into the car. Slamming the door, she slides across the hood, jumps into her seat, starts up the sputtering engine, and pulls off; creating a cloud of dark gray smoke and a long trail of skid marks. The fake cops scramble to their feet and into their vehicles, coughing at the smoke and smell of burnt rubber.

“What took you so long?” he asks, tilting his cheek slightly to the left but not directly looking at her.

“You’re welcome,” she spits in irony, staring steadfastly at the road ahead.

He looks around in the cabin and then up at the ceiling.

“At least it has a sunroof…” he murmurs. Then he looks down at the console which is so filled to the brim with weaponry that the lid cannot properly close. “Oh, goody. Toys,” he smiles. He glances at the phony squad cars in the rearview mirror which have multiplied due to the original three calling for backup. Then, he looks to Constance and gasps.

“Hey,” he whispers, leaning in towards her with a simper, “Untie me.”

She sees his demented look in her peripheral vision and figures she shouldn’t appease him.

“What?” she responds, still looking straight ahead.

“Please untie me,” he repeats.

“Why?”

“Please?”

“No.”

“Just untie me.”

“No.”

“Please, I beg of thee.”

“I’m driving.”

“Come on. You can still do it. Just unloose my hands.”

“How?”

“I know you have your blade… Please untie me.”

“Look. I’m NOT going to untie you, so stop asking.”

“Well, I’M NOT going to stop asking until you untie me.”

She adjusts her head and tries harder to focus on the road, swerving around the occasional vehicle with one hand on the wheel.

“Pleaseuntieme pleaseuntieme pleaseuntieme pleaseuntieme...”

She inhales and turns her head, finally making direct eye contact with him.

“Please?” he begs, giving her the puppy dog eyes.

“FINE,” she grunts, drawing a knife from her pocket and flipping out the blade.

He grins as she leans the sharp object towards him, returning her attention to the road.

“Don’t make me regret this…” she breathes in annoyance as he happily places his tied wrists over the sharp blade. With a swift pull, the ropes fall off.

“Don’t worry,” he sings, flexing his wrists and cracking his knuckles, “I will.”

She shakes her head as she clicks her knife back to its folded position and tucks it away. Wriggling his fingers, he immediately lays hold on the two high-tech guns sticking out of the console. Looking them over with immense joy, he admires their delicate beauty like an appraiser. Constance glances over at him in suspicion as he turns on his knees in his seat. He slides open the sunroof and stands out of it, slamming shut the now near-empty console with his shiny black monk straps. Constance’s eyes widen as she hears his maniacal laughter and the consequent chaos ensuing behind their vehicle, but she maintains her concentration on the road.

“Whoohoo! What fun. Again, again!” he laughs and claps like a baby as he lowers himself back into his seat. He digs through the glove compartment and finds more ammo for the blasters.

“Listen, buddy,” Constance starts, “I just saved your life, so don’t you go and get yourself killed, okay?”

“Not that anyone would care,” he shrugs, as he turns and begins to lift himself back out of the sunroof.

“Of course I would care--” Constance blurts, grasping his shoulder.

He looks down at her hand and into her eyes.

“I mean, people would care. Lots of different people would care, you know? People everywhere would care...” she stutters.

“I know,” he smirks, “Everyone loves me. I just wanted to hear you say it.”

She rolls her eyes and looks back to the road as he pops back up through the sunroof and continues his blasting and crazed laughter. She glances in her rearview mirror at the shattered windshields, blown-out tires, and multiple explosions. Suddenly, she hears a honk and looks up at the road. She sees that she is approaching an intersection with a red light. Going too fast to stop, she clears straight through it and swerves around as not to hit an oncoming semi-truck. This causes her partner to yank to the side and lose his blasters.

“Look, Constance! No hands!” she hears his muffled voice say. Looking to her left, she sees him grinning with jazz hands hanging just outside of her window. She gasps and swerves to the other side, causing him to yank back up and slide back into the sunroof.

“Get your butt in here and stay,” she says through gritted teeth.

He smiles, closes his eyes, and reclines his seat all the way back, resting his hands under his head.

Zipping down the wrong way down a one-way street, she swerves around oncoming cars until the fake officers are nowhere in sight. She then continues onto the highway until they are at a desolate area; the checkpoint. There, she pulls over to the right shoulder and retracts a special module from the console.

“Wake up, sleepyhead, this lemon’s ’bout to blow,” she says, punching in a few numbers on the keypad.

“This vehicle will self-destruct in thirty-- twenty-nine--- twenty-eight...” the automated countdown starts. Constance gets out of the car and walks around to the passenger side She tries to pull the door open, but the handle completely yanks off. Cringing, she throws it to the ground and knocks on the window.

“Nineteen-- eighteen-- seventeen-- sixteen...” the computerized voice continues as her partner sleeps soundly with a smile still on his face.

“Hey!!! Someone!!!” she screams through the window, “...never mind.” she goes around to her side again, jumps into the car, straddles him, and pulls the lever that causes the chair to return to its original position.

“Woah, woah! What do you think you’re doing?” he asks suddenly, opening his eyes as they stare at each other nose to nose.

“Saving your life,” she says snarkily, yanking the door handle from the inside and tilting out of the car. Like this, they roll out and down the hill.

“Three-- two-- one-- BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM.”

Safely at the bottom of the hill, they stop rolling. Constance is still squatted over him with her hands on his chest, and they are both breathing hard for a moment of awkward silence.

“You…” he starts, “...are wrinkling my suit.”

She brushes her hair back and swiftly flips off of him, clearing her throat and dusting herself off. He stands to his feet, picks a few grass blades out of his hair, and adjusts his sleeves and pant legs. Suddenly, the wind picks up.

“Right on time!” Constance breathes as she looks to the sky with a grin. A helicopter hovers overhead and a rope ladder descends.

“After you,” he says, offering his hand out towards the ladder. She nods her head in appreciation and takes hold of the ladder. “Weaker ones first, of course,“ he mumbles quickly.

Constance rolls her eyes but continues climbing.