Fan Fiction

The sun is out, and its late spring warmth feels good through the windshield of my red Z-24 Cavalier. The windows are down, and a light breeze passes through the car. The air is full of fast food odors and traffic noise on Route 255 near the mall. Late Friday afternoon shoppers and patrons of hamburger stands jam the intersection ahead. Beyond lies Exit #17 of Interstate 80 and a 40-minute commute home.

It was a long day at work, a long week, in fact. I settle back in the bucket seat allowing myself to relax. The driver of the car ahead is watching a woman dressed in an attractive business suit walking toward a Long John Silver's restaurant. The other cars have moved ahead. He's still watching the pedestrian. Finally, short on patience, I press the center of my steering wheel to get his attention.

"Bleeeeeep"

The man's head shoots around, then he notices that the highway in front of him is empty. Too late. The light is already red. He must have been daydreaming. I pull up behind him at the light, he looks in the rear view mirror, grins sheepishly, and shrugs his shoulders.

Can't blame him. The warm sun, the end of a week, and the boring traffic. A perfect setting for a daydream.

Slowly, I notice an unusual sound in the air. It's the high pitched hum of a high performance engine in the distance, almost like the sound of a race track from miles away. I scan the surrounding intersection for a source, but there's nothing evident. Maybe its a plane. For a moment, it sounds like a high-powered sports car....

A splotch of bright yellow in the rear view mirror catches my eye -- half a mile back, but closing fast.This is not just any sports car. As the gap between us narrows, it begins to take shape. A yellow 911 Porsche, cruising at a high rate of speed in the lane to my left, the opposing lane of traffic. No cars separate us at the moment, but the Porsche is closing very fast, and the traffic from Shaffer Road has a green light to enter the intersection.

As if on cue, a four-wheel drive pickup makes a wide left past the hood of my car and turns directly into the path of the oncoming Porsche. I'm left with that feeling of helplessness that only a witness to an accident can feel. Events begin to take place as if they were filmed in slow motion, yet I'm unable to take any action to avert the collision that appears certain to take place.

The driver of the truck veers hard to the right, bouncing off the berm of the highway. A lesser vehicle would have probably been disabled at the scene, but the truck is still in motion as the Porsche knifes through intersection, sliding between cars that screech to a halt in the middle of the road.

The driver in front of me has pulled off the highway in the hopes of avoiding involvement. His car is already off the berm, leaving mine first in line at the light, a car length back from the intersection.

Then I see the other car. Its an older model light blue Cadillac convertible, and it had evidently been following the Porsche at an equally high rate of speed. But the first speeders luck doesn't hold for the second. The four-wheeler, still moving from his momentum through the intersection, bounces back onto the highway, across the lane of traffic and T-bones a car that was stopped in the same lane as mine. The blue cadillac is obscured from vision for a moment, but a second crash confirms my suspicion that it couldn't avoid hitting the truck. The entire scenario has been played out just a few feet from my car, but so far, I've been only a witness. That's about to change.

The passenger in the cadillac is out of the vehicle. He's wearing a light colored suit, and dark glasses. The wind has mussed his blond hair. His partner, a handsome, bearded, black man, was uninjured in the crash, but their car is badly damaged. Both men are waving badges at the assembling crowd, quieting the anger of the pickup driver.

"He's getting away, Rico!" shouts the first man.

"Get him! I'll take care of this..." replies the other.

I follow the movement of the man in the light colored outfit in my rear view mirror. He runs through the line of stopped cars and spots the Porsche, attempting to dodge its way through traffic at mall entrances. His gaze shoots back to the damaged Cadillac, then to the escaping Porsche, then -- directly at me. With his badge still drooping from his left hand, Miami Vice Detective Sonny Crockett is through the door and into the passenger side seat of the Z-24.

"Police officer. Follow that car!"

He didn't have to tell me twice. The intersection is open and I accelerate around the corner, past cars still pulled off the roadway from the passing of the 911 Porsche. Only two vehicles are between us, and they pull off the road as I continue to accelerate toward the mark. On the open road, I wouldn't have a chance of catching the German racer, but in traffic, we're closing fast. Too fast.

The driver of the other car spins the vehicle around, and brakes to a stop only yards away. Again I have that slow motion sensation as the passenger side door of the car opens and a solidly built man with a beard and sunglasses emerges, trailing an Uzi from his right hand. He's about to riddle my car with lead!

Crockett is already leaning out the passenger side window of the car, his nickel-plated .45 in his right hand, preparing to return fire. The Uzi spits a burst of shots in our direction. I hit the brakes hard, and I'm thrown forward in the car.....

"Bleeeeeeep"

My head snaps back at the sound from the car behind me, then I realize that I'm alone in my car with no traffic in front of me at the light. Too late. Its already red. I was daydreaming. I pull up to the light, glance in the rear view mirror, smile sheepishly at the driver in the car behind me and shrug my shoulders. Hey, stuck in traffic on a warm spring afternoon -- a perfect setting for a daydream....