The legend of Poofessah Lootone and the Great Loo roll convention of '23.

The search for Poofessah Lootone and the Great Loo roll convention of '23.

  

   " Dear Lord- they shot out the bloody carburetor!"

   "What even is a carburetor?"

   "No idea! Urgh- over and out."

   Kirk McDoonhan slammed down the CB radio and returned to the steering wheel, clutching it so hard he worried his knuckles may break through his hand. ( It had happened before.) The fleet of police cars  behind them not only seemed more interested in his suped up Chevy than the rig of illicit booze  ( all part of the plan- though he'd much rather be stuck in the truck right now) they also appeared to have the long range shot of a postman.

   "Aside from the carburetor, have they actually hit anything yet, Mick?" He inquired, looking up at his friend in the monstrous rig.

   "Yeah- think they just got a hitch-hiker on the side of the road, Man. Over."

   Despite the speed, he stole a look in the rear view mirror, just in time to see a somewhat hobo-ish man clutching his buttocks, hopping this way and that towards the shrubbery.  Kirk grinned as the sight disappeared into the distance. His smile soon turned to one of pain and agony, however, as he felt the sharp nick of something to his wrist.

   How the bullet had managed to scrape his hand without at least scuffing the upholstery first was anyone's guess; but this shell/ homing missile was now unarguably stuck in his watch, after removing a chunk of wrist flesh.

   "Gaah!" He screeched, immediately wishing he's stayed silent.

  "What's up?" Came Mick's concerned voice out of the ether," I heard howling."

   "They shot me in the damn Rolex, the arseholes!!"

   "Thought it was a fake one; Rolex's are pretty expensive. Over."

   "Oh yeah- over! It is, but I still had payments... over and out!"

   With that, he scoped out the rear view mirror once more, to see how the cops were faring.

   Kirk's thick mane of black hair was now billowing in the strong, engine induced breeze, his slim face locked in a determined death scowl, undermined only by his flapping shirt collar, rhythmically slapping him in the cheek. Still, gazing at himself wasn't getting any work done- so he hauled his eyes away and focused instead on the closest bobby.

   Walter Rathenau, unpronounceable in name, unavoidable in nature, was needless to say, hot on their trail, having spent most of his life chasing petty thieves to the ends of the earth. Kirk shrugged, and clamped his foot down on the accelerator.

    In the corner of his eye, he could see Walter's brow furrow, as the sheriff struggled to give chase, frantically snaking along the gritty dirt trail. To one side was the sand blown mountain, shrubs laced in the fine dust of a thousand highspeed car chases. Bideford hill ascended high up into the sky as far as the eye could see, lazy clouds encircling it like cooing sea-birds, the sun beating down on it's back. To the left was a gigantic ravine; there used to at least be a small barrier cordoning it off, but now thanks to Greenpeace, this had been removed, as it obstructed your view of the flood planes below. Slightly.

   Kirk knew there was a very good chance that someone would ricochet down into that abyss at some point, and really didn't want it to be him. Walter evidently felt the same way, as he began to stick very close to the inside lane, which vastly hampered his snaking ability, but possibly preserved his life.

   Kirk shared that problem; though luckily with 350 horsepower's worth  of Chevy under his heel, it was one of very few. That was until he noticed Rathenau leaning out the window, at least, something green and shiny clutched in his fist.