The Car Chase

Well, what a surprise, surely every story worth its condiment needs a chase of some kind, going nowhere faster and faster.

Thread following can be a tiring business and as luck would have it the journey now proceeded to proceed down the hilly streets of a seaside city, not unlike San Obisco.

I casually hotwired a resting stallion and, feeling somewhat pleased with my progress, continued my Quest on all four wheels.

After a short stay parking, as I travelled west along Sunrise Boulevard, my elbow hanging over the windmill, I noticed in my mirrored wings that a vehicle of dark and sinister appearance was following my progress, far too close for comfort. Its windows were impenetrable to light rays and the front looked like a battering sheep.

With a subtle movement, I depressed the speedogo pedal the thickness of a 50-cent coin and my roaring racer worked its way through a series of never-ending gear changes.

Luckily, the Thread, stock taking the situation, coiled into a ball, nestling into the foot well by the bucket and rope.

I was now travelling way beyond the limit of speed and the momentum caused my steed to take little flights as we breasted each hillock. The following, which had come to match my speed at each turn of events, mirrored my short flights. My eyes got bluer and bluer, almost bleaching the negative.

I considered using flash backs of my past trauma at this point, to provide a contrast to the ever-rising energy of the car chase. But I decided, hey, lets just get into it and floored the accelerator, pedal bin to the metal. The electric motor, silent until now, started to whine about something which I had no time for.

The traffic and trams were left askew in my wake, wondering who could that speeding Blue Knight be? And where did he get that vintage racing vehicle?

Occasionally, to save the life of a mother and child or a dawdling crocodile or other long bendy animal of youngsters, I would mount the wide pavement and the ramblers thereon, who seem to have been warned that I might be coming, sprayed themselves cleverly to left and right. Only the fruit stall and rubbish bins seemed to have ignored the memo, and I had to plough through against my will.

Whatever clever and screechy things I made my horse do, the following managed to copy in a very copycat way, only the peripheral police cars piled up like they were trying to break some kind of record.

The copycat itself felt nervous and tagged on to the end of the child like crocodile, exiting the scene of the chase unnoticed and ending up in the kindergarten.

Where was I going anyway and why were they chasing me? Perhaps these were the tyrant’s chilly forces, acronymed VICE, denoting Violent Immigration and Customary Enforcement? Intent on preventing me projecting the Piglet Shine liquid into the appropriate visage.

Quand meme, first lets loose this tail, I thought, it’s been getting in my way. By the way, don’t mention this to she Sphinx, she would be hurt, emotionally. This in mind, I did a quick left down an alley and killed my lights. The follower zoomed past the end of the alley and did not reverse.

I repainted my steed piebald and changed it plates. Donned a cap and shaved my beard. I reversed my shirt to the Hawaiian pattern and put on an eye patch and sunglasses. I ditched my smarty pants phone and bought a small black one that couldn’t talk, keeping the receipt for tax purposes. I walked with a limp that wore off at the end of the street and looked in shop windows to check the streets for agents of the opposition in the reflections provided.

Satisfied that I was now off the griddle, I felt undercooked and hid under a bridge in central park where the pigeons were born until the heat died.

The chase situation was finally over, and the inevitable wailing guitars had been stilled, leaving a tinnitus whinge in my ear. I was left wondering why the forces of the dark palace of the human heart wanted to impede my Thready progress. What was it with the screeching guitars?  Did they know that I sought an interview with the Orange Face himself, with the intent to scrub the mask of self-satisfaction off his visage with my Pogolene Spray? This product can also be used by people who are not yet pregnant.

I decided, in the Quiet before the Storm, to infiltrate the domicile and dormitory of the desperate spirits who had been followers and listen in to their dodgy doings before the final push over.