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Boring. The highway is just so mind-blowingly boring. The miles stretch endlessly on my trip to Florida. Boring. It’s still early in the morning and I’m already bored to death. The day doesn’t look promising at all. I could entertain myself by annoying one of my friends with a long phone call. But as I rarely drive long distances and the X5 is quite new, I haven’t yet bothered to purchase a snap-in charger for my phone. And I’ve forgotten to bring the USB charging cable. So I have no way to recharge my phone’s dead battery. Without my phone I can’t even access my music collection. Which makes everything even more boring. To the right I see a boring small Louisiana town. On my left side, a boring dark sedan is overtaking me. My boring tank is still half full. No reason to stop and interrupt my misery of total boredom. Why in god’s name haven’t I taken the plane? In hindsight, this idea to finally run in the new car was ridiculous.On my right I admire a small group of cows. One is brown, all the others are black. Truly amazing. At least amazing enough to make them the main visual attraction around here. In my mind’s eye I see locals gathering around this spectacle every day, watching the cows in awe. Escorts Islington… the nozzle of a gun pointed at my head. Instinctively I immediately fully slam the brakes. I barely realize that my side window shatters. I look to my right and see a highway exit through the other shattered side window.Still fully on the brakes, I yank the car into the exit. I barely miss it. The pedal is on the metal again even while I’m still plowing through a stretch of grass before reaching tarmac again. I look into my rear mirror quickly. Nobody to be seen, just an empty and innocent looking highway exit. I realize that I’m surprisingly calm. Shouldn’t I be more upset? Would shaking like a leaf be more appropriate? At least a tinge of panic maybe? Hell, I’ve never been in this situation and I just don’t know how I’m expected to react. Surviving is quite high on my list though, that much is clear.

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Who might want to kill me? I think I’m the classical nice guy. I’ve never fucked someone else’s wife – at least not as far as I know. My criminal career is limited to a stolen apple at the age of eight. And I somehow doubt that Mr. Thompson – Escorts Islington – has finally found out and is upset enough for such drastic measures. Is this maybe just a coincidence and no one will follow me? Some kind of spontaneous Louisiana greeting ritual? Oh, shit, no such luck, I see a dark sedan speeding down the exit behind me.Of course, I press everything out of my car that it’s got. Which is a lot, as I had impulsively opted for the bigger kind of engine-thing. I have no idea about such stuff and hadn’t really understood the difference at the time. Eight cylinders somehow sounded better than six, so that’s what I had bought. All I know is that my car feels seriously fast right now. But surprisingly, my pursuers manage to keep up. Suddenly a shot smashes the front window. Shit. Of course, I duck my head, hating me while I do it. Because it’s silly, it’s too late anyway.My still quite un-shot right rear view mirror tells me two things, both of which add to an already shitty day. First, there is a large lump of bird-shit on the mirror frame. Damn, this car is almost brand new. But I at least thank the obviously quite big bird for omitting to target my now non-existent windshield. Second – there’s a guy leaning out of the side window of that damn sedan, pointing a gun in my general direction. I’m not sure if he’s aware that he looks absolutely ridiculous, like in a cheap 60s gangster movie. I’m a little disappointed that he’s left out some kind of Humphrey Bogart hat. If I’m about to be shot, it should happen with style.I see a small humpy country lane to the right and decide to use every advantage I might have against them. I have an SUV and they don’t. So I turn onto it, braking late and hard. And I immediately accelerate down this small track, almost pushing the pedal through the floor. I don’t even know where exactly I am. Probably somewhere in Louisiana still.Driving at Escorts Islington, holey track is a challenge and I have my hands full with keeping the car on it. I hope that the massive dust plume I’m producing might help me. My location is painfully obvious this way, but I don’t envy them for racing down this stretch of dirt at this speed in a dust plume. It’s difficult enough without it.

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