[ WP ] At the end of every rainbow there is literally a pot of gold

My head recoiled and spun as someone slammed into the back of our black station wagon. 
 
 “ Fucking pricks! ” Sam yelled as he yanked the wheel to avoid a nearby bush. 
 I held on tight to the frame of the door, sitting high in my seat as we rode over the sodden field. We had the lead. 
 
 Not ten minutes ago, I was sitting bleary-eyed in the passenger seat. My veins slowly coaxing me to life as the warm fingers of my coffee massaged my hands. I had barely slept four hours last night, tossing and turning, unable to sleep in the humidity. The morning commute had been sluggish, traffic sloughing slow through soaked streets. The old car smelt of mildew, one window stuck, forever open to the elements, and today Sam had a towel in his lap so his pants wouldn ’ t get wet from the rain snaking in. As we wound our way to the edge of the slowly waking suburb, the sun decided it was time to wake the world from its rainy revere. 
 
 And there it was, creeping through the clouds: a rainbow. Sam and I looked momentarily at each other, his smile matched mine as he spun the wheel and pointed the car to that misty place where magic and wet soil collided in a pot of gold. 
 
 “ Ute, wide on the left! ” I called, my voice calmer than I felt. 
 
 “ On it. ” Sam responded, angling the car towards a gap in the scrub at the end of the field. 
 
 Come on, come on, I thought as both vehicles closed towards each other. I pulled my arm in from the window and edged closer to Sam. 
 
 The car veered, then Sam somehow managed to regain control as the other vehicle crashed into the back-passenger door. Bits of leaf and twigs crunched through Sam ’ s window, and in front another paddock stood clear and green. At the edge of the ocean of green, right where the hill met the field in a strand of trees, the wispy tendrils from the painted sky found their home. Almost there. 
 
 Another crunching sound from behind, this time it wasn ’ t us. The Ute driver had lost control and had careened into another pursuer. 
 
 “ Fucking won ’ t need this shit-box anymore, ” Sam grinned as he saw the carnage in his mirror, and he pushed hard on the accelerator, engine screaming with joy. 
 
 There it was, nestled under a tree, about half the size of a dumpster, the pot of gold. Our pot of gold. 
 
 Rules of the chase meant that first come, first served, and the leprechauns enforced it with deadly force. 
 
 Fuck the commute, fuck work, fuck this car. We were set! 

