Frank Weemer was cruising along I-95 at his usual hundred mile an hour, with his Ipod blasting out hardcore rock and roll and he was thoroughly enjoying himself. He loved breezing past the cars in the inner lane and going right to the bumper of the ones in his lane. He was driving a forty thousand dollar car since he believed you always got what you pay for and he wanted a lot. He didn't want his grandma's car and wouldn't even ride in a van. This baby moves like a pole dancer without the shimmy.
Frank was a contract computer engineer and a graduate of West Point who had stayed in shape. He was brilliant at his work and could, and did, write his own contracts. He always spaced his contracts so he could have a good time with his money. Frank loved having a good time and the money didn't mean much since he earned so much of it. Unlike the stereotype nerd, Frank was a great looking man and a charmer. He did very well with the ladies.
“Just take those old records off the shelf”, he heard as he rolled along. Man, he thought, how can you listen to Bob Seger at 70 mph. He wasn't interested in seeing the countryside which was good because it was just a blur. At his speed the white lines became one long white line.
Patrolman Huey Serling was also cruising along in a powerful car. He wasn't going a hundred but he wasn't going the speed limit either. He liked his speed too. Being a state policeman, he could drive as fast as he wanted. Who was going to pull him over? Who was even going to catch him? He was the law out here on the I. He had the power and he had the gun.
He'd be all alone in the fast lane. Drivers always pulled into the slow lane even if they were doing the speed limit and were just trying to pass some goof doing fifty. They all did except truckers. Huey hated truckers because they weren't afraid of him. They could real bastards when they were in a sour mood, which they always were. It was if that was a job requirement.
Some miles behind was Frank, cruising along listening to heavy metal while he applied heavy metal with his foot. He was enjoying the socialization with the other drivers which consisted of them waving the flag and him returning it. It was amazing how many people had only one finger. Frank felt sorry for them having to drive sissy cars.
Meanwhile, Huey had selected his next victim. He got behind the guy and turned the flashers on. The driver pulls over and begin to sweat and feel shaky. It's a no win situation for the driver. Huey called the tags in for a search of warrants and to make sure the dispatcher knew where he was and who he'd stopped. After that, Huey waits a few more minutes before getting out of the patrol car. He wanted the nervousness to build up with the driver he'd stopped.
Huey knew the driver was watching him in his side mirror. They all did even though it didn't matter. Huey pushes his shoulders back; he angles his hat just so; he adjusts his gun belt a couple of times; he approaches the car. Huey was one of the smart-mouthed state troopers who liked to make the driver as uncomfortable as possible. It was an unwritten fringe benefit.
Frank was very comfortable. The passing lane was wide open and so was his engine. He was making great time. He was going to cut hours of his trip if no cops caught him or caught up to him. Blasting past a cop sitting still on the side of the road didn't give the cop a fair chance at Frank. By the time the cop reacted and got moving. Frank would be four or five miles away.
Huey was at the car now. He threw his shoulders back to enhance his six-foot three height. He sucked his gut in to hide his beer belly. It was time for the show. Huey practiced his act in front of the mirror to make sure he wasn't losing anything off of it. That wouldn't do at all.
“Mistah, ya'll was goin' eighty-five in a seventy zone. Ana rason fer thet?” Huey knew the answer and knew the driver wasn't about to tell him. He was going over the limit because he'd wanted to. He couldn't say it because, true or not, it sounded as if he was smart-mouthing a police officer. That never worked out well. A cop doesn't have to write a ticket; he can arrest you and have the car towed.
“I,umm, I guess I wasn't paying, uh, attention to the speed. Sorry, officer.” It didn't matter what he said or if he said anything. He was going to get the ticket, the same ticket, no matter what he said. Just once Huey wished for some originality. If he ever heard something new, he might let the driver get away with speeding.
“Wahl, ya'll shoulda been. Ahm gointa have ta write ya a ticket. Now, ya'll stay put, ya heah?”
Frank was listening to the Beatle's “Drive My Car”. He wouldn't allow anyone to drive his car. He hated it when the mechanics got into it to take it to the back to repair it. He hated it the one time he had to have it towed. He felt he should have it towed to a junkyard since it was violated. Frank kept the car cleaner than he kept himself. Frank even washed the tire treads. He was obsessive about his car. His mother called him once and told him she needed a ride to her doctor. Frank called a cab for her.
Neither Frank or Huey liked truckers. Frank didn't like them because they'd get in his lane and slow him down. Huey didn't like them because they weren't intimidated by him. Instead of meekly waiting for him to approach and apologizing, they tended to jump out of the truck and yell, “Whatta you want?” The trucker would say this as belligerently as possible. The driver would smell from driving for days without bathing. They all had hair growing out of their nostrils. The guys were worse.
Frank blew past Huey without a second thought. He was out of sight before Huey got back on the road and up to speed. Huey wasn't about to let this one get away, if he caught up to him. A hundred and six. Wow! Mostly people went, at most, ninety. This was the big one. He did some quick calculations. Lemme see. A hunnerd ann fitah fer speedin', plus fave dollah a mile comes ta, umm, five tames thirtah-six come ta, umm, a lot. Ahm gonna get a big attaboy fer this un.
Frank finally notices the cop behind him and eases off the road. This was going to delay him a little. He'd have to jack it up a bit to make up for it. Maybe some Led Zeppelin or Pink Floyd. He watched in his mirror as Huey got out of the patrol car and started his hat and gun adjustments routine. Frank was amused by it. He'd seen it done better and seen it done worse. He gave it a seven. He waited until Huey got to his car and then buzzed the window down. He looked at Huey but didn't say anything.
“Mistah, ya'll was goin' a hunnerd an six en a seventah zone. Anah reson fer thet?”
“Yea, I'm on my way to Miami. At that speed, I cut hours off my time. Miami! Hot beaches, hot babes and me with a hot car and a pocket full of money,” Frank told him. It seemed a reasonable reason for blowing down the I.
“Wahl, ya jus' can't drive at anah ole speed. Ah gotta give ya'll a ticket,” Huey said. Huey was taken a little aback by what Frank told him. He wasn't used to hearing the truth. He also wasn't used to a calm driver. This wasn't right. Maybe this guy was on drugs. He looked okay; his eyes were clear and he wasn't jittery. Must be some kind of Yankee freak.
Frank wanted to get this over with. He had hot beaches and hot babes to get to. When Huey came back and started telling him what his options were for paying the fine or going to court, Frank said he knew all that. He signed the ticket. Huey turned and started back to his cruiser. As luck would have it, there was an opening in the traffic at the very moment. Frank had time to make up for. Frank put the ticket in his glove compartment; he put his car in gear; he blasted off.
Huey couldn't believe it.
The chase was on.