The Getaway

A single mistake would mean the end. His very life depended on the decisions he made. Run, he told himself. The very next instance, he forced himself to calm down and brought his over-sensitive nerves under some semblance of control. One thing he could not afford was to make a wrong move.

"Run. Run like the wind. 'Run' like the wind? OK... blow .. NO!! drift like the wind. Er...
Oh, I need to work on my drifting skills if I want to progress anymore in Most Wanted 2.
OK, OK, run like a cheetah. I need a stiff drink. 'kyunki cheetah bhi peeta hai.' Hehe. But a drink would be good. Must make a break for it soon."

Dusk was receding and it was starting to get dark. He could see the glimmer and dazzle of artificial lights all around him. As if he was in the spotlight and the entire world watched to see what his next move would be. He wished they would get bored and switch the channel.

"Switch the channel. The channel. Television!!!"

His heart missed a beat. His stomach felt what his punching bag must feel like after the daily morning workout.
He was in top physical condition. He had to be. He would need every muscle in his body to perform to its full potential, if not more.
He couldn't bear to miss another episode of Samurai Jack. Not 2 episodes in a row. Yet, he stood there. Watching time and cars go by.
As much as he hated missing another episode, death was still less lucrative. The anti-depressants seemed to be working just fine.

"All I need is one break. One teeny tiny tootsie wootsie little break. I know I can get through. One break. I can even see the end."

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a slight dis-orientation in the steady, streamlined flow of traffic. Bending his knees, he waited in anticipation for what seemed like an eternity. The adrenaline pumping.
He loved the rush he felt at moments like these. He craved it. He lived for it.
Suddenly, he tore off. Right through the cars zooming past at speeds a cheetah could never even dream of matching. No, not even if he was drunk and already hallucinating.

He crossed the road safely. On the whole, rather comfortably. No untoward incident. Just some spit on his face thanks to a bum who timed his spit-outta-the-window routine perfectly with the mad dash.

"Nothing a little spit and shine won't clean."

Giggling to himself, he walked off into the crowd.

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Mr. POOP: "Erm, why don't they build a foot-over bridge?"
Me:" "
......
.......
........
Me:"Er, they just haven't thought of it. That's why."

Also, coming up with a Name for a story[?] is the hardest part.
Winamp threwup "Getaway Car" by Audioslave and I lapped it up.