Scent of a Wahoo

We entered the Cincinnati city limits with a line of State Troopers on our tail and a helicopter overhead. Noel was still asleep in the back, oblivious to the excitement surrounding her. I didn’t wake her. She needed the rest.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I hissed at Steve.
“Back off, man. Back off.”
“Fuck that. Pull over. Let us out of here.”

Steve reached down between his seat and the driver’s side door, pulling out a gun and aiming it my direction.

“I said back off, man.”

Resigned to my current situation, I settled into my seat and accepted the fact that this will all turn out badly. At least Noel was still peacefully dreaming in the back seat.

Steve relaxed his grip on his gun, still holding it in his left hand, but laying it in his lap.

“It’s the wahoo,” said Steve.
“What?”
“The wahoo in the trunk. They want the wahoo in the trunk.”

I had no idea what the hell he was talking about. I figured it was best not to question a crazy man.

We flew into downtown Cincinnati, Highway Patrol on our tail. Steve hit the surface streets, heading for the Over-the-Rhine area. He zipped down the road at eighty miles per hour, dodging cars and pedestrians. The cops backed off, fearing that their intense chase was encouraging Steve’s reckless behaviour.

Steve whipped the car into an alley and screeched to a halt. Noel was flung off of the back seat and onto the floor of the Caprice Classic. Finally waking, she looked up over the front seat.

“What’s going on?” she asked.
Steve raised his gun. “Get out.”

Neither of us were going to ask any questions. We grabbed our stuff, jumped out, and hid behind the nearest dumpster. We heard the police sirens getting closer and closer. Steve spun the tires, taking off down the alley.

He never saw the pick-up truck coming. It broadsided him, spinning his car around on the street. The force of the impact popped his trunk open spilling rotted fish all over the pavement.

“Oh,” I thought to myself, “Wahoo.”