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“Step out slowly with your hands over your heads!” a voice echoed from a megaphone.

It was a picturesque evening, complete with the orange of the sunset and a breeze. Blue and red lights flashed from the cluster of police vehicles surrounding them. The Peugeot had skidded off the tarmac coming to a halt in a wheat farm, closing curtain to a chase sustained over several county lines. Currency notes flailed in the air from the car’s open boot. One perforated wheel had been running on bear rim. The smell of burning rubber pervaded the interior. A palpable ambience ensued. They didn’t talk to each other, fear was a salient feature on their horrid faces. Perhaps they could have made it across the border in time if she didn’t squash 10 minutes wearing make up after a bank heist. She slid her hand to his and clasped it in her’s, tight. Her eyes rheumy. Him, trying in vain to wear a poker face. They could wave the white flag and serve life without parole. Or they could put a fight, even though prospectives of survival were non-existent. As if in sync, they both switched their eyes to the G3 assault rifle lying on the backseat. They had came to a rubicon, just about to cross. Seems it was time. This was it – the beginning of the end.

3 thoughts on “WHEAT-NESS

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