“Go back to the kitchen, grandma,” the punk called out his car window.
“I’m not a grandma,” said the detective. “I’m a Mom.”
And the light turned green.
Detective Mom swiftly pumped the throttle into second, tearing out of the starting line. The punk skidded left and right a few times on his way out, before his tires found their place and launched his car hot on Mom’s trail.
Off to a good start, Mom thought, flicking her eyes to the rearview. She nudged left when the punk tried to pass her left side, then right when he tried that side instead. He was riding her bumper–Mom could swear he clicked against it a few times–and he would break through sooner or later, even if it meant spinning them both out of the race and wrapping them around trees. She knew this kid. He would rather turn them both into crushed meat cans then let a middle-aged woman beat him.
So she let the kid in, steadily increasing the gears. It was a straightaway, and the middle of the night, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t the possibility of other drivers getting in the way. Not to mention deer.
The kid was pulling up next to Mom’s car, almost nose-to-nose now. Again, he dinged against her–the side this time. She felt the door beside her rumble with each high-speed tap. Absently, she thought about the chariot races in Ben Hur.
I am a chariot, she thought, gunning it.
She passed out of reach of the kid’s car, feeling the pressure of the velocity forcing her back against her seat. Her heart was hammering against her ribcage. She had her glasses on, but it was dark out, and the street lights were a blur. She was convinced there would be a hitchhiker or a moose or something down the way.
Instead, there was a four-way stop. And a car about to cross her path.
She suppressed every instinct to come to a stop at the sign, but she couldn’t cause a collision, either. Not to an innocent.
So she pumped the breaks.
The punk rammed her bumper, sending the both of them skidding to the side, hurtling down the road. Both cars just, just missed swiping the crossing car.
But the race was over. Mom and the punk were trashed, tumbling into the ditch and–
Mom’s car rolled. Once, twice. Her airbag punched her in the face, and glass filled her hair. After a period of disorientation, she realized she was upside-down. Everything was upside-down.
She hated working undercover.
Today’s three random prompt categories were, “Mom in a street race,” “Meat,” and “The chariot.”
I’m only just now realizing I should have had Mom be in a footrace with The Jolt. It was a perfect setup! God damn it.