Flashy's mind was absorbed in the bizarre event he had experienced as he rode down the lone road. The night's darkness had thickened, bringing a somber gloom to the woodsy surroundings; even the full moon found it difficult to reflect its light through the immense sable clouds. Nevertheless, the temperature was mild, which should allow the escape to be a little more comfortable. Alas, not even that seemed to be working.
The fugitive, wearing nothing but a grey t-shirt and tattered blue jeans, shivered as if he stood naked under a frozen lake. He turned on the air conditioner, gradually raising the desired temperature until he could raise no more. A normal person would be steaming and sweating through all his pores after a minute inside that car; to Flashy, it still felt a bit "cool." He could not understand what was happening to him: just five minutes ago, he lay in his cell, immune to the soft breeze blowing from the outside through the tiny room's iron bars. Yet now, Flashy felt as if he had become a cold-blooded reptile, unable to keep his body's temperature high enough by himself, and therefore remaining dependent in an exterior source of heat to survive.
His intuition couldn't have led him closer to the truth.
Flashy turned on the radio, immediately tuning it to his favorite station. He loved the music that came out of the police car's speakers. It was full of percussion, of rhythm, and of nostalgy - it resembled "samba" under the guise of "90's latin music," and it reminded him of his hometown, far far away from that long asphalt road. It reminded the fugitive of his early childhood in a poor slum, crossed by dirt trails too narrow for cars to travel on. "It's a dog-eat-dog world," Flashy thought as he got closer to the outskirts of a small town. He learned the hardships of living in a nest of crime and death, a nest that would always shape the future of the little chicks it sheltered. Like many of his friends, Flashy was dragged into the clutches of the local drug cartel at an early age. Despite his parents' disapproval, young Irain thought he was doing what he thought it would be best for the family; even if that meant breaking the law. Throughout two decades, that was and still is the only kind of living Flashy knows: as an illegal immigrant, Irain Colledo soon discovered the only way to survive was to embrace the criminal life. Five years passed since he sneaked to this part of the world, yet he has always lived up to his reputation: that of a rogue, a scoundrel - a drug dealer, to be more specific.
"We interrupt our music selection for the breaking news." Flashy turned up the volume. "A prisoner evaded the T. C. Kulze Jailhouse in a police car just minutes ago."
That could only have been him.
"According to the authorities, the escapee is Irain Colledo, a twenty-year old male residing illegally in the country. He had been arrested today for selling drugs. Police forces are already initiating a manhunt. Roadblocks are already present in every possible route. We now give word to Sheriff Mendor, who boldly claims Colledo will be behind bars before dawn."
Flashy's face blushed in anger.
"That's right, Miss; that rascal ain't seeing sunlight anywhere else in my county than in prison! I've got my men ready to put Colledo behind bars before dawn, and I assure he'll only get out again when we drop him outside our country!"
"Thank you, Sheriff Mendor. The local authorities are still investigating how Irain Colledo managed to evade Kulze's Jailhouse and will not disclose any further information until that investigation is completed. And now, back to tonight's music selection..."
Flashy believed himself to be doomed. Even with two guns and a police car, he won't be able to break through a roadblock. He had to think how he would wing it, as he did many times before, and he had to think quickly: a row of white cars with colorful, flashing lights stood along the same road as it made its way to the heart of the small town - and they didn't seem eager to let the cold-blooded fugitive pass.