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This wasn't how the robbery was supposed to go. Bobby drove the souped up truck smoothly as he brought their speed firmly into the 90 MPH range, feeling a swell of pride at his effortless skill. He laughed sadistically and floored the gas, sending countless bags of shitty 7-Eleven food clattering to the floor. Suck and Swallow were opening up bags of chips and soda in the spacious back, toasting their successful robbery. Sure, they were celebrating a little early, but Bobby had a Queen of Hearts up his sleeve and an Elmer in the backseat. You, the disgruntled food clerk, were bound and gagged, which they all would've been making more horny jokes about if they weren't trying to escape a high-speed pursuit. Bobby said something into the radio, then wrenched the steering wheel, making the truck lurch violently into a U-turn. The terrain beneath them shifted.
Where did it all go so wrong?
You were a heartless Elmer like any other. After the failed Elmer Revolution, Bryce made it out of the bunker unscathed and started getting her hearts from willing donors. That, at least, was what she told the remaining Elmers. You and every other Elmer had an innate understanding that she had simply gotten better at hiding the slaughter. But, without a heart, you didn't quite have it in you to care all too much. So you worked your shitty job at the 7-Eleven, forgotten by the cruel CEO, making just enough to afford a bland white-walled apartment you barely decorated. And when Bobby Worst and his twinkish goons drove their truck into the side of the convenience store, breaking through the wall and sending half the freezer aisle flying, you put your hands up and stood there, bored, as they filled their bags with molding hot dogs and Monster Energy and Takis and a million other cheap snacks. You thought that would be the end of it, when America's Favorite Terrorist clambered into the drivers seat and tried to back out. But the truck wouldn't move.
You might've been heartless, but you still had interests. And your interest was cars. How they're built, how they work, different types of wheels and how they interact with every terrain imaginable, you know your stuff. To a slightly obsessive degree, maybe, but hobbies never hurt anyone. So you, like an idiot, spoke before you could even think.
"Let me take a look at it."
The terrorist was obviously suspicious. On one hand, what could a simple 7-Eleven Elmer do to this monster of a vehicle? It was practically indestructible! But on the other, why would a simple 7-Eleven Elmer want to look at the kickass truck? Was he trying to sabotage them? Before Bobby could say no, you had already lifted up the hood and found what you were looking for.
Getting on the good side of a terrorist had to be the biggest mistake you'd ever made. Once the truck was up and moving again and you had explained every step you'd taken to fix it in excruciating detail, Bobby and the twinks had already made up their minds. The police were too close to get away without a chase. They needed leverage. So the twinks descended upon you, armed with jump ropes and duct tape they'd stolen from your own store, and here you are. Sitting on the floor of the hulking truck, adhesive from the tape making your mouth, wrists, and ankles buzz with discomfort. Blinding white flashed across your vision for a moment, then booming thunder that rattled the whole vehicle.
Bryce sat at her desk in the darkened oval office, eyes glued to her laptop. Outside, rain assaulted the side of the White House. On the screen was a glowing map of the city, and a bright green dot. That was Bobby. More accurately, it was the GPS system installed on the truck she had gotten him for Christmas. The military had deemed that particular model too dangerous for public use, so of course Bobby wanted one. One staged disaster later, and the truck conveniently went missing and ended up in the terrorist's grasp. Behind the green dot and speeding ever closer were a horde of blue dots. Police cruisers. She had a policy for situations like this: If anything happened between the law and Bobby Worst, she was to personally supervise. To keep her fellow Americans safe, of course. Nothing made the public sigh in relief quite like the knowledge that their president cared about them, so much so that she was personally overseeing every investigation into Bobby Worst. His voice sounded through her cellular.
"Hey, Miss Prezzy, I'm being chased right now," He said with a casual tone wholly inappropriate for the situation.
"No shit, I can see you on my laptop," she replied through a mouthful of Panda Express. "Those fuckers are right on your heels."
"Think you can help?"
"Yeah. They're putting out spikes a few miles ahead of you, U-turn in the opposite direction, across the road verge." Before he could reply, she hung up and took the waiting call.
"Miss President?" Asked the lead policeman, the dot closest behind the AWOL military vehicle.
"Keep going, put out more spikes northbound. That truck is a monster, it'll take more than one to immobilize," she instructed. Across town, the police set up three layers of useless spikes. The truck made it across the verge without flipping, and the gang of terrorists were headed southbound, surrounded by terrified drivers.
"Miss President--"
"I know. Get ahead and cut off the truck."
"That's suicide, madam, that truck is nearly ten tons-"
"-I'm sorry, are you the president of the United States?" She asked with a strained, too-big smile. "Didn't think so. Set up more spikes to immobilize the truck. Now, I need to take this call."
She hung up. Back to Bobby.
"Hon, get off at the next exit, and try to keep it low-key. I'm going to get those incessant asses off your trail as best I can."
"It might be too late for that," Swallow chimed in. Distracted from their victory party, his eyes focused in on an object whirring above the highway. A helicopter.
"Shit, we got eyes on us from above, dear," Bobby grimaced. Bryce's smile grew more strained, more tired looking.
"Fuck."
The Presidents voice was clear to all of you, sounding over the speakers of the stolen military truck. It felt surreal. All those hours her ads played ceaselessly on the shitty little TV inside the 7-Eleven, your only source of entertainment during the oftentimes numbingly boring workdays. Now here it was, sounding just as performative as usual, though only now it was being used to guide a terrorist away from the bloodied maw of justice.
"Can't you tell the cops to fuck off? You're the president, they'd do it," Bobby asked into the high-tech call system, making a sharp turn onto the exit ramp.
"I can only do that so many times, Bobby," Bryce explained. "If there's no reason for me to call it off, that'd look awfully suspicious, wouldn't it?" Bobby paused, obviously thinking.
"Let's use the hostage!" Suck interjected. Fuck, they remembered you were here.
"Hell yes!" Bobby roared. "Don't worry, Bryce, I'm about to give these fuckers a reason to call it off." With that ominous remark, Bobby grabbed a PA speaker attached to the truck, yelling into it.
"Hey, if you all don't piss off on the count of three, I'm going to fuck this innocent hostage!"
Swallow pressed a button and a back window rolled down, letting the rain and whipping winds enter the speeding truck. Suck grabbed you and shoved your head out of the window, making sure your bound wrists and mouth were visible to the cops behind. The rain was icy and sharp, fat droplets hitting your face and soaking your golden hair. You wrenched your head to the right and saw the small army of police cruisers in hot pursuit of the vehicle. The sirens overlapped and blared through the streets, making your head spin. Light flashed again, then violent thunder, rumbling beneath the asphalt.
Bryce watched the computer, listened in to the audio she was getting from both the cops and the speeding truck. Rapidly switching from call to call.
"If you go back onto the highway and put enough lives in danger it'd be enough to end the chase. Can you hear me, Bobby?" There was a pause. Why wasn't he responding?
"...Miss President?" The cops voice sounded.
Shit. Shit. She was silent for what felt like hours. Her smile widened.
"...I said you should end the chase. You're putting too many lives in danger." Bryce paused and closed her eyes, praying that the idiot would eat up her line of bullshit.
The cop sounded suspicious. "How were you talking to Bobby Worst?"
"I wasn't. I never said that. You're imagining that. Get those assholes off the road before I fire you."
If the cop was still tipped off, he didn't show it, simply talking into his radio. The cop cars gradually slowed and turned around, easing off the chase.
"Bryce, are we good?" Bobby asked.
She watched the blue dots dissipate.
"You're perfect."