You Don't Know What They Do To Guys Like Me In Prison

When we arrived at the dealership, Frank had finally stopped shaking. He climbed out with me, following me silently into the building. I rang the bell and a burly man came out from a door behind the counter. He was short, round, and was smoking a cigar. Upon noticing my eyeing his smoking, he offered me one too. I accepted, lighting mine and taking a deep drag. I offered it to Frank, who refused, crinkling his nose at the smoke and smell. I shrugged, following the dealer out to the lot. I had him look at our car and size up how much it was worth. He brought us to a cheap old truck, worth less than half of my car. I agreed to the truck as it would easily throw the police off my trail. After some haggling and threatening I convinced the man to give us the truck and pay in cash the remainder of my car’s value. Within an hour we drove off in the banged up pickup with a wad of cash in my pocket.

As promised, we stopped at a DMV and managed to get new plates. They were completely different, and we were now even harder to track. As we were getting back in the truck, I noticed Frank glance back at the lady behind the counter. I knew what he was thinking. He was wondering what his chances were of making it inside and phoning the police without having a bullet sent through his brain.

“Zero.” I stated, climbing in.

“Wh-huh?” Frank turned to look at me, confusion and a mild fear on his face.

“Your chances of making it back in there alive. Zero.” I smirked calmly.

His face paled, expression turning to pure fear. “Oh- I- I wasn’t-“ He stammered, eyes darting everywhere.

“You were. Now get in before I have to shoot you.”

He gulped, scrambling into the passenger seat with a hurry I hadn’t seen in a long time from anyone but myself. It made me smile, as I started to drive, back out onto the highway.

Notes

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