Escaping -Numero 1-

A black-and-yellow streak colored the void freeway. It was close to two o'clock in the morning. Most sensible people were still asleep. Although 'sensible' wasn't one of his predominant qualities, the commander of the streak knew he was pushing it. The speed limit was seventy; the motorcycle's spedometer read over ninety. The rider didn't care. He needed to get away, and the law was secondary. For the lone man on the freeway, life was sucking, big time. He had gotten into an argument with his girlfriend, and she had kicked him out of her house. So now he was zipping along the street faster than most people would dare follow. Not  fast enough, however, for the police working the graveyard shift on the side of the road, speedometer poised to intercept the encoming traffic. On the cue of a shrill trilling, the police flicked on his sirens and persued the speefing motorcyclist.

The loud wailing of the sirens barely reached the rider's ears. He was deep into his thoughts to begin with, and the black helmet he wore wasn't helping. 'Why me?' the man thought to himself, but he didn't stop. Glancing behind him, he was mildly surprised to see that a second car had joined the first. He whipped his head back around fast enough to notice he was about to run off the edge of the road. Yanking the bike up sharply, the biker managed to clear the railing and sail twenty feet down. The motorcycle thudded onto asphault and slowed rapidly. The man was still on farmiliar turf; he had made the jump before. He screeched around a corner  and drove much more slowly down a suburban street. Tightly-packed houses crowded in on either side, looming over the skinny street.

Ten more blocks, and the houses thinned. Five more, and he had reached a small, one-story home with a tall wooden fence. The rider pulled his vehicle into a short driveway and dismounted. He walked despondently toward his front door and unlocked it with clumsy fingers. Shutting the door loudly, he lurched suddenly forward, drunk with his own anger and self-pity. The man flung himself uncaringly onto a couch with holes in the upholstery and cradled his head in his hands. He felt humself starting to nod off, but just when it seemed blissful unconciousness would take him, a jarring knock shattered to pleasant quiet.