Rex
Jonathan VanDyke | Daniele Murtas
Several bullets punctured the grill of the car and shattered window glass as newspaper stands passing by exploded into clouds of shredded paper, but Rex didn’t mind, this was a slow Tuesday. He cracked his neck and shifted his Trans Am into fifth gear. The Trans Am roared and obeyed its master. The car he was pursuing veered left onto the next street. Rex grabbed the parking break and slid into the turn, his car howling in eager pursuit. The two cars sped through the city’s night life barely dodging pedestrians and other cars. A small man popped out of the fleeing car’s passenger window with a freshly reloaded automatic rifle. His eyes connected with Rex’s, which only read do it.
The man squeezed the trigger. Rex hit the gas. The man’s face lit up from the muzzle flash as bullets spewed wildly from the mouth of the gun. The Trans Am’s windshield was decimated. Like an eagle swooping in on its prey, Rex’s car slammed into the rear corner, causing the other car to spin out of control. As the car spun violently to the right, the man with the machine gun flew onto Rex’s hood. Rex reached out and grabbed the man by the back of the head and slammed it against metal. As he lifted the man’s head to repeat the process, the little man with impeccable agility pulled a knife from his boot and drove it straight into Rex’s chest. Still going a hundred miles an hour, Rex swerved as he pulled the knife from his chest. The cigarettes in his jacket pocket had done their best to stop the knife from puncturing him completely. Rex gripped the knife and returned the favor.
“Try it again,” the customer said to the lady behind the counter. She sighed and swiped the card again. Please try again, the card reader said.
“I’m sorry sir, I don’t think it’s going to work,” the lady said.
“Ok, but try it again.”
“Sir I’m not sure that-” The Trans Am ripped through the side of the gas station in an explosion of glass and snacks. Rex and the man flew across the store smashing into everything and anything. After a moment all was still. Rex was on his back, eyes closed. He looked as though he’d been to hell and back and needed just a quick nap. A few feet away the little man laid in the fetal position, a small pool of blood growing where the knife handle was.
The lady behind the counter and the customer stood there motionless and shocked. Before they could speak, Rex opened his eyes and sat up with a grunt. He stood up and cranked his neck. Several audible pops rang out. He grabbed the shredded cigarette pack and some matches out of his jacket. Rex struck a match against the grain of his stubble and lit a cigarette in his mouth. There were small shards of glass embedded in his brow and blood and dirt streaked across his face.
“Oh my gosh, are you ok? Who are you?” the lady behind the counter asked. Rex looked over at her with his smoldering gaze, fire in his eyes. Those eyes could cut down a thousand men.
“Lady.” He paused. “I’m a cop.” Rex strutted to the entry wound of the gas station and stretched for a second. Suddenly, there was a scream as the little man rose up and with a second wind ripped the knife from his person and flung it at Rex. Rex caught the knife in mid air and threw back at the man. It buried deep into his chest as he flew back into the dairy aisle.
Rex walked past his steaming Trans Am and into the heat of the night, pursuing the car. He’d never stop, not until his job was done. They’d pay for shoplifting, he thought. A slow Tuesday.
