[ WP ] You know the random driver in every action movie where the hero jumps in and orders to `` follow that car ! '' . Yup , that 's you . Every single time you 're trying to get anywhere .

Once again in hot pursuit, a Wednesday, as always, Lundgren throws off his helmet, revealing his bloated and disappointingly old and withered face as he jumps off the broken Ducati and limps and staggers through traffic. And once again we ’ re sitting in my old Volkswagen, Bruce ’ s face as expressionless as Cher cracking her widest smile, me sweating and panting like a dog. 
 Bruce slowly moves his head to squint at me. It takes way too long but lucky for him Lundgren just got hit by the second pick-up truck and is now limping on both legs. Yes, somehow that ’ s possible. 
 “ Go around. Sidewalk. ” Bruce mutters, motioning his head to his right. 
 “ I am not driving over another pedestrian Bruce. Goddammit! ” 
 He gives me a look. His expression doesn ’ t really change, but I somehow know what he ’ s trying to accomplish. 
 “ Fuck! ” 
 I floor it, weaving by the traffic, pedestrians jumping out of our way just in the nick of time. 
 I swerve to the right as a red Saab pulls out of the queue to our left and almost hits us. 
 “ Dolph. ” Bruce hisses. 
 “ Stay close, kid. ” He commands, a bit too nonchalantly for my taste. 
 “ I don ’ t understand how every Wednesday you get caught with your pants down without a car! ” 
 This wasn ’ t a figure of speech, for Bruce was solely wearing his checkered red boxers and a pair of white New Balance sneaks ( also he managed to put on a hat and sunglasses ) 
 “ I told you ”, he exclaims, not taking his eyes of the road that should actually be a sidewalk only. 
 “ Told me what? ” 
 “ My wife has the car on Wednesdays. “ 
 Now Sly decides to chime in from the back seat, his stupid voice hardly audible over the screeching of my tires and the occasional shots Bruce is now firing at Lundgrens red Saab, usually hitting an innocent by-stander in the arm or leg off a ricochet. “ Whaat ”? His coars voice mutters. 
 “ I thought you lost it over a DUI? ” 
 “ Not in front of the Kid, Sylvester! ” Bruce scolds him. 
 I can ’ t believe what I ’ m hearing. “ So that ’ s why? You got smashed and caught behind the wheel? ” 
 Bruce doesn ’ t answer. Instead he takes two more shots at the Saab, the first bullet crashing the rear window, the second bullet going through our right front tire. 
 We swerve to the right and hit the wall of a bank sideways, slowly and softer than I had imagined, coming to a screeching, grinding halt. 
 “ Goddammit Bruce, how the hell did you hit our tire? ” 
 “ Hit a bump ”, he explained, clearly blaming me as he climbed out the window, firing another accidental shot into the air in the process. 
 I get out of the car and open the back door for Sly. A wave of nausea hits me as he steps out next to me. 
 “ Fuck Sly, that smells like you made a poopy! ” 
 Bruce has now made his way over the roof of the car, landing between me and Sly. 
 “ Protein powder? ” 
 “ Yeah, yeah. ” Sly croaks as both make their way to the trunk. Sly decided using the key to open the lock would take too long and just pulls out the entire latch with both arms. Arnold leaps out gasping for air, his shirt stained with sweat. “ Weah iss si odda guy? ” Bruce does some more bald head pointing over at me. Arnold looks over, a look of savage rage on his sweaty red face. 
 “ Bruce shot up our own tire! ” I yell, pointing at Willis standing there trying to light a cigarette as if that was the normal reaction to have. His lighter won ’ t work so he lights his cig with a shot from his 9 millimeter. Arnold looks at Bruce. “ Nekss time I ssit in the froant! ” 
 Bruce exhales the blue fume, nodding at Arnold. 
 “ Weah is the odda odda guy? ” Arnold asks, looking down the side walk as the traffic next to us slowly begins to desolve. 
 “ He got away. ” Sly forces the words out of his face, seemingly in agony. 
 “ Well ”, I make myself as tall as possible: “ Now you finally wrecked my fucking car. So no more Wednesday carpool lane! ” 
 “ I have an Esscalaide. ” Arnold exclaims. 
 “ That ’ s a fine car. ” Bruce remarks. 
 “ Uuhh. Huuhh. ” Sylvester underlines the conversation with a hoarse grunt from deep within. “ So fella ’ s, what do we do now? ” 
 
 
 
 

