When gunning it on the highway, running down a dream, I often tend to bend the speed limit a little bit. Sometimes 55 isn’t fast enough, especially when you have a 12 hour drive you’re trying to make in 10. Whenever I think I’m gonna get nabbed, I don’t. Whenever I’m ignorant about the fact that I’m making the speed limit look like the work of a tricycle, that’s when the fuzz finds me. Tunes are jamming and it’s dark outside when all of a sudden the rear view turns into a multi-colored strobe light. It doesn’t even matter if I’m breaking the law at the time the sirens go off. I always think they’re for me. I’m always prepared to be fucked by the long dick of the law. Whether I'm in my car flying or sitting on some Natties in Brighton, when I see/hear sirens, I think the worst.
That “Oh shit” moment sucks, and I immediately hit the brakes. Then, through nothing short of a miracle, the copper switches lanes and flies by, not even giving a passing glance. The next five minutes are full of smiles and thoughts and timeless sentiments including “I can’t imagine how shitty that would have been if I got pulled over.” Hugs and high-fives all-around. The combination of relief and getting away with it nearly brings tears to my eyes every damn time. Damn it feels good to be a gangster.