Where was it? He misplaced it again? This was the third time this week he lost it in his filthy hovel. Again? On this day of all? Today was the day to put it to action and now it’s gone again! He wanted to scream until he could feel his lungs burst with fury. He sent papers and gadgets soaring into his ceiling, searching for his precious loss. There it was. Lying on his mantle, in the exact same space as the first time. His room was hot and dark. He sat, staring into his flashing computer screen, a captive to its illuminating glare. His fan was on as high as it could go, slightly blowing his stiff hair, yet barely whipping around the stuffy air. Trash and stains were his roommates, tantalizing flies on the outside windowsill. It was dusk and his television projected the news segments. Finally, his anticipations were brought to light when the running segment, of teenagers torturing an elderly dog, was interrupted.

“Breaking news: a high speed pursuit has broken out in the streets of Chicago. A rare black vehicle now identified as a 2008 Pagani Zonda Roadster F was first seen at O’Hare Airport pulling out of a parking garage. The five year old two-seater had exceptionally tinted windows, making it impossible to identify the driver’s gender or appearance. The exotic speedster attracted much attention as the driver began to show off its speed and power. After heading south onto Bessie Coleman Drive, the car was seen running multiple tollbooths and increasing speed. One woman was sitting on a bus stop bench when the black sports car purposely drifted onto the sidewalk and skimming the seat she sat on, making her the driver’s first victim. From there, the car’s operator continued to head south, committing eight more traffic violations before merging onto the I-190 and heading east into the city. Police went into pursuit seconds later and have begun to block off the interstate. We now take you live with Brent Bishop to the chase unfolding on the I-190. Brent?”

The black roadster sped through the interstate with little effort. Brent spoke with unimportant words as only the actions of the Pagani were important. It raced on with several officer patrols tailing it. As a shock to its audience, it began to slow down. The police officers began to encircle the exotic speed demon and push it off to the side of the road. The hot vehicle seemed beaten until the spokes of the right wheels began to turn. With a low whine, the spokes began to lay while still spinning at 200 mph. As the police cruisers drifted nearer to continue pushing it off into the left of the road, the titanium spokes took aim at the aggressive officials and launched. Hundreds of ammunition per second flew into the sides of the cruisers, sending them sailing into the air. With the orange dusk skylight, the hurtling red and blue lights reflected upon the beautiful black metal of the roadster and it raced and shone with a beauty that not even the moon’s starlit gaze could have provided.

The Pagani slid under one of the flying patrol cruisers and sleekly skidded into exit 51G and off of the interstate. The two officers remaining chased the speeder with every ounce of horsepower their vehicles could manage. They returned to civilian streets. Though night was approaching fast, the hustle and bustle of Chicago began to drag on later into the evenings.

Without the desire to kill intentionally, the Pagani’s spokes stood up again and rested in their familiar pattern. A fog of white smoke drowned the city slickers and their streets as the roadster broke hard. It turned left onto West Jackson Boulevard and again onto South La Salle Street.

He could hear them say “bank.” Was the Pagani headed to the bank on La Salle? Their suspicions were torn to shreds upon seeing the speedster fly directly past the bank without so much as a release from the gas pedal. Yet in a second, a boom echoed through the streets as smoke shot from the pillars nearest the entrances. Hundreds of Chicagoan citizens fled through the streets from inside and around the bank. In front of the Pagani, into the police cruisers’ paths, and all through the streets, the citizens ran as fast as their legs would carry them. Purses dropped. Shoes, suitcases, wallets, jewelry, wigs, and food were all left to be trampled in the streets.

The dead lay from the explosion, the cruisers, the Pagani, the trampling heels. Corpses carpeted the bombed remains of the La Salle bank, burnt and black with charred ash. The streets became equally messy within minutes of the explosion. The last of the cruisers lay belly-up and angled just so perfectly through an ice cream kiosk and its formerly paying customer. The preceding of which would never walk again. A rushing fleet of pedestrian bomb victims raised such a confusion, that an escaping taxicab was thrown into a spiraling frenzy that would take two lives and sent the police cruiser sailing with a flock of doves only to crash into a nearby building, toppling it into the frantic crowd.

Yet the Pagani emerged from the hysteria with few bodily stains and a broken side view mirror and corresponding window. However, it raced on; over the bodies, fallen street poles, and between toppled vehicles. It vanished off into the distance, never to be forgotten.