When I jumped in the passenger door of this car and screamed DRIVE thirty minutes ago I could never have foreseen the hell my life has become.
I admit, I’m no angel – I just shot three guys and staged a desperate getaway in the first car which happened by, but no crime deserves the punishment I’m receiving now.
A ceaseless monologue of cheeky, chirpy, passive-aggressive London bollocks, dressed up with a transparently false warm and welcoming demeanour, and the central locking is switched on or I’d have jumped out and taken my chances as we were going over a bridge back there.
If you’re reading this, call the police and tell them we’re heading West on the I-10 through El Monte singing Sultans of Swing by Dire Straights and I can’t make it stop.
I’ve thrown a brooch out of the window like a Hobbit captured by Orcs so you can track me.
You’re my only hope. I know I’ll get eighteen in San Quentin, but I’ll need to spend all that time in therapy to get over this.
Help me, please.