Area Man in High-Speed Chase Driving Car He Definitely Stole

– Recently paroled felon Jacob Madura, resident of Hemet, is currently involved in a high-speed chase with police officers along California Interstate 210, driving his own personal…ah, are you shitting me? There’s no way that car’s his. 

We’ve been unable to confirm whether Madura stole the car from a nearby neighborhood or whether it is his own vehicle, but at the moment…ah, fuck it. He totally ganked it.

I mean, look at it. It’s got 18-inch rims, dual exhaust, and two spoilers. That sweet-ass blue paint job is bitchin’, too. And the racing stripes are a nice touch. If it wasn’t for the incessant drone of the Channel 4 helicopter’s engines, we could probably hear that car’s throaty roar from 2,000 feet up. You think a minimum-wage postal worker like Madura bought and paid for that shit himself? No. Fucking. Way.

He’s moved from the 210 to surface streets now. Oh look, now he’s mounted the curb. See the sparks fly! Now he’s on the sidewalk, smashing mailboxes and trash cans. I shit you not: if he bought and paid for that car with his own money, he’d be a little more careful with it. He wouldn’t blow through three chain-link fences, smash his windshield to hell, knock off his roof spoiler, skid through those residential backyards, rip off his oil pan getting back on the road, and then pop a hubcap drifting around the corner.

Yeah, yeah, I hear ya talking: when the stink of your own fear and desperation is in your nostrils, you can hearE39M5wheel them prison doors slamming, and you can see Sailor Joe in the shower grinning at you, just waiting for you to bend over and pick up that fuckin’ bar of soap you dropped on the hairy drain cover, then you’d stomp that motherfucking pedal like your life depended on it. I don’t think so. He so jacked that car from a Riverside driveway somewhere. 

I mean, come on: Madura’s been in prison for the last three years. Breaking and entering over in the Rowland Heights, remember? We checked his record. He’s never had a single job that paid higher than minimum wage, and before he went in he owned a beat-up old Nissan. The dude doesn’t have two Kennedy half-dollars to rub together. There’s no way he stumped up for that reupholstering himself. Black leather don’t come cheap. And that fish tank in the center backseat console? That takes some serious scratch. That ain’t Madura’s car.

Whoa! He totally bottomed out going over the median there. There go his undercarriage lights.  Well, not his. Whoever he stole the car from put ‘em in. They must be crying tears of blood right about now, watching this shit on the news. This is live, right, Karen? Can we zoom in a bit more and get a look at that detailing? Aw, goddamn—he went through the concrete divider. It’s all scratched to shit now. Too bad. Somebody sure spent a lot of time on the headlights and the bumper. Not Madura, obviously.

Too bad about that custom hood ornament, too. That was kick-ass.

Look, they always say to “drive it like it’s stolen,” right? And that’s just what Madura’s doing. Take a look, there: he caught some air off that hill, smashed his crankcase on the landing, and then spun out trying to turn from Montrose Avenue to Ocean View Boulevard. Jesus Christ, did you see that? He hit that telephone pole so hard he sent his suicide door flying. Man, that must’ve cost a fortune to install. For whoever installed it, of course, not Madura. There’s no way this mahfah didn’t boost those wheels.

The two that aren’t flat and throwing up cascades of sparks, that is.

Well, that looks like that’s it, folks. Madura’s come to a complete stop. Deputies have boxed him in, those heavy-duty cruisers’ bumpers scratching off the last vestiges of that custom black-and-blue paint job. What a fucking waste. Madura’s out of the car and on the ground. They’ve got him cuffed. The engine’s started to smoke. Shit, that stroker kit must have been a kick to install—and a real bitch to pay for. What a goddamn shame.

Somebody’s probably really sad about the state of that car, and it’s not Madura. He just pinched it and went for a joyride. He’s only crying ‘cause the officer slammed his head into the pavement pretty hard when they took him down. There’s no way that car’s his.

No fucking way.

Andrew T. Post

Andrew T. Post

Andrew T. Post graduated from North Dakota State University in December of 2007, when the weather was so cold that Starbucks was serving coffee on a stick. He took his degree in journalism and put it to good use, penning sententious articles on his blog and works of short science fiction. In early 2012 he packed his bags and sought occupational asylum in the Republic of South Korea, where he lives in a ninth-floor apartment and works as an English teacher. He is a licensed pilot, a classically-trained bartender, and an unapologetic punster whose first novel is currently seeking a venue.