Tell That To The Judge, Kid

“It was self-defense, you son-of-a-bitch!” Hannah says, struggling in her handcuffs.

“You can tell that to the judge,” Officer Jackson tells Hannah, guiding her in the backseat of the squad car. “You girls are wanted for murder!”

“My dad is a lawyer,” Becca says, sitting handcuffed beside Hannah, “and we’re gonna sue you, you redneck illiterate, bastard.”

Jackson turns to Becca. “If I had a dollar for every time someone threatened me with a lawsuit, I’d be rich.

Hannah bends over, gagging. “Where are your teeth?”

“Make fun of us country folk all you like. I ain’t the one in handcuffs, missy.”

Hannah draws Becca’s eyes to contact and winks.

“Hey, officer—”

“The answer is no. I’ve been around you city folk long enough to know what you’re finna ask,” Officer Jackson says.

“Look,” Hannah says, leaning forward.

Bang. Crash. Thud. Crunch. Crush. Roll!

“You ok, Hannah?” Becca asks as the car stops rolling.

“I think so.”

“OMG!” Hannah says, climbing from the wrecked police car. “Jackson didn’t wear his seatbelt.

“Jackson is dead as fuck!” Becca cheers, jumping up and down. “Dead redneck. Dead redneck!”

“Come on, let’s get the fuck outta here,” Hannah pulls Becca’s arm.

“Look,” Becca says, pointing, “a car show!”

Hannah rubs her hands together. “How could we be so blessed.”

“Quick. Let’s go!”

Becca and Hannah blend in with the crowd of rednecks.

“Nice car,” Hannah tells a man.

“It’s a 1967 Cheville.”

“It go fast?”

The man threw his waxing rag over his shoulder. “You kiddin’ lady?”

“A girl’s gotta ask questions,” she says, biting her lower lip.

He gulped back a lump in his throat.

“If you let me test drive it, I’ll let you test drive me? Deal?”

“Um… Ok…Sure,” he says, throwing Hannah the keys.

“Here’s my wallet,” she says, tossing it. “Just so you know, we’re coming back.”


“Be back in ten minutes.”

“You better be ready to test drive me when I get back,” she says.

Becca covers a laugh in the passenger seat.

The dust didn’t settle well in the thin air as Hannah mashed the gas.

“Why did you give him your wallet?” Becca asks.

“Wasn’t mine…”

Becca doubles over, cackling to tears. “Where to know?”

“Let’s just get the fuck outta West Virginia.”

(© 2020 Andrew Cyr)

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