The car was maneuvering down the highway. This nigga wanted to gun it. One hundred miles and running! But he couldn’t give the police a reason to suspect him, so he did the speed limit. Sixty five and running from the law. He had the seat up, hugging the wheel of the car.
The sun was beaming bright. Freedom was in his sight. Jail was in the rear. Death was in the air. And all of it was on his chest. He still had the gun in his hand, vest on… Teflon. He was driving with precision, staying under the radar. What was a nigga to do when he was on the move from the boys in blue with nowhere to go?
He was composing offhand. So, the play was… he still didn’t know. Nothing reckless, because that helicopter could converge on this area in seconds. The bullets were low in the weapon. He had to get low, his heart was beating fast and his hands were shaking. So, he gripped the steering wheel tighter, trying to avoid another crash. He held the uncanny ability to get low, so he blended with the cars on this road. Headed to the north pole, in the wrong direction. Hell!
This nigga peeped the law in his rearview. Nothing reckless. They weren’t suspecting him yet, but once they saw his complexion, they would automatically suspect him. This shit would get hectic again. He weaved the car into the next lane. Fast lane. He was anxious and ready to takeoff, put the pedal to the metal.
The bag was his passenger. Old Nick was in his ear. He was scared and alone, on the way to the great unknown. Damn! He wished that it was all just a bad dream, and he could go home. His mother, he would never hug her again. Maybe, if he made it safe, he could send her some diamonds. His life, he would never be able to buy it back. The law wanted his neck, they would want him to dance in the air. He was looking in the side view mirror, wondering what was next?
The cop cruiser was only patrolling, he was about six cars behind. This nigga was considering taking the next exit before he made a bad move and the cops witnessed it. Plus, the car was stolen and would be reported so in an instant. So, the play was…
Take the next exit. He took it and pulled into the gas station. He was looking for the obvious. A new car. His eyes were scanning the area for the law. He jumped out of the stolen vehicle, hoodie pulled over his head, duffle bag over his shoulder, Newport dangling from his lips and the gun in his sleeve.
The play was… something that this old white man would’ve never foreseen. This nigga threw the pistol to the old white man’s throat, and pushed him in his truck, “drive off… slow.” This nigga didn’t want to murder the old white man on this road. However, the old white man was nervous and this nigga was nervous.
The old white man figured he would be killed. He needed to be noticed, so he swerved the Range Rover. This nigga clunked him with the butt of the gun, “another move like that and you’re done!”
“Please point that gun in another direction,” The old white man cried, “I just want to make it home to my wife.” This nigga smiled, the play was… he was tying up the old white man and his wife.
Kory McClary's Blog 