Patrick Whitehurst, author of “Satan’s Wild Ride”, has published crime flash stories in Shotgun Honey, Punk Noir, Guilt Crime Story Flash, Pulp Modern and elsewhere.

The Buick Park Avenue tapped the rear back fender of the Volvo. Not hard but enough to throw the cat carrier to the floor. Door popped open too. Sam accelerated to keep himself ahead of whoever pulled up behind him. He’d been so intent on tailing the wife he hadn’t checked behind him.

Learned of his own tail too late.

And now Satan was loose. Cat jumped onto the seat, shaking off the fall only as cats do. Bounced up the top of the seat and stared accusingly at the green machine speeding up him for another kiss.

Sam crushed his black slip-on shoe into the accelerator. Came up fast behind a wife’s Suburban and swung the wheel to the left, guiding the huffing Volvo around her SUV, and whipped back into the right lane. Buick kept pace behind him. It wrenched left, around the cheating spouse, and back on his rear bumper. Checked the rear view. Driver was a leering, middle-ager like Sam, but angry as fuck.

Cat vanished.

He looked around the floorboards, his foot firm on the gas, and scanned the backseat. No sign of it. Could have gone under the seat when he swung around the Suburban. The overcast San Francisco day made the interior pale and gloomy. He searched for a black blob.

Another smash snapped his head back, pulled the seatbelt against his black flannel in a death hug. Bastard got him again, harder this time. No way his five-cylinder could compare against a V6, even an old one.

Sam apologized to the cat. “Sorry about today. Kid’s idea. I’m fine either way.”

Sam assumed the cops would put a stop to this shit soon enough. Driver looked like the blonde dude that made out yesterday with his client’s wife. Must have realized Sam was on his track. Fucking tails never failed to go south. Wifey must have taken a turn. SUV had evaporated.

The Volvo launched off a hill while Sam had his head turned. Fucking Filbert. He whipped forward to grip the wheel just as the car took air. The engine roared, making a weak 747 impersonation, and giving a thrill to the tourists on the sidewalks. Felt his lap lift from his seat. In the rearview he saw a black cat rise from the back of the hatchback and drop down. Heard a pissed growl. Not an outing Satan would soon forget.

“You’ll be fine,” he said. “Bet they got good drugs.”

The Volvo touched down with a crunch and, surprisingly, lurched on. The Buick flew off the same hill behind him. Sam scanned his surroundings and realized Lombard Street wasn’t far. He spun the wheel to the right. If he was near Lombard, he was near the vet. He veered onto Greenwich.

Rather than hold back on the next drop, Sam accelerated, He didn’t want to fuck up the Volvo, but an idea struck. The way the Buick shimmied behind him; he crossed his fingers he could make it worse. The next drop came. Sam and Satan rose into the air. The gray city shot past in a blur, and they hit the asphalt with a shuddering clunk. Satan hissed in the sky and plopped into the back seat. Sam took his foot off the gas and hit the brakes. The Volvo, fueled by the weight of the drop, quaked when he pulled into a skinny driveway. Over his shoulder, he watched the Buick wreck.

Even Satan turned to see the spectacle.

Sam doubted the feline would understand the significance of the wobbly tires, how it lifted on the left side, and flopped like a dead steel whale on its side. The beat-up car slid past, sparks and smoke trailing from the engine. Metal screeched like a banshee against the asphalt. Couldn’t see the driver, not that Sam cared. He threw the Volvo into reverse and backed onto the steep street.

The Volvo chugged past the overturned asshole and made its way to North Beach just as the sound of sirens rounded the corner.

Sam frowned. Steering felt off. “Show’s over, Satan. Time to get those balls chopped.”

*****

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