Ronnie was a Race Car Driver

Ronnie's dad always enjoyed a good shrimp cocktail. He hadn't been around much, on a account of the two stints he served in prison, but when he was around, he'd take Ronnie to the Mexican part of town and they'd both have a beer (even though Ronnie was only 16) and a shrimp cocktail. It had been years since Ronnie'd seen his Dad, but he still went out to Little Mexico for a shrimp cocktail and a beer whenever he had a chance. While he contemplated this, two bullets whizzed past his ear, nearly grazing him.

As he sped down the home stretch of the I-5, he thought about his future and how he might like to open a shrimp cocktail restaraunt of his own once he made it to Mexico. He'd never made one, but he figured he'd had enough of them to figure it out. He figured he'd have plenty of time to get the recipe right, and although duffel bag full of money on the passenger seat wasn't that full, it'd be more than enough to live like a fat cat down in Mexico for years. There were now only two cop cars chasing him. There'd been four earlier, but some strategic driving had resulted in two of the pigs smashing into each other. He'd played it pretty smart up to this point, and if his timing was as good as he'd calculated, there shouldn't be much of a fuss at the border itself.

Another few shots were fired, removing the back windsheild altogether. They'd been shotgun blasts this time, but Ronnie never took his eyes off the road. He just concentrated on those sunny L.A. afternoons, and how his Dad would show him how to flirt with the spanish speaking waitresses after a second beer and an octapus tostada.

"This is your last chance, Ronnie. You pull that car over this instant or God help me we will shoot your call straight to hell!"

He was pretty sure there were diced cucumbers in there. Definitely tomato. There had to be onion, but he couldn't recall if it was white or red. He laughed to himself about how he must've eaten 1,000 god damned shrimp cocktails but never really paid attention to what was in it. He pondered Googling a recipe, but wasn't sure if Mexico had the internet yet. The border appeared on the horizon.
An explosion of gunfire erupted from the two police cars. Each cop, including both drivers, fired towards the escaping vehicle, destroying the car's rear. Multiple bullets tore right through the car's body, only narrowly missing Ronnie as he grinned towards the awaiting Mexican border with visions of spicy seafood and icy beer.

The cops in the lead cop car had emptied out several guns apeice and their firearm's sour smoke began to sting the driver's eyes. Pannicked, he took a hand off of the wheel to cover them when the car began to swerve. Trying to regain control, he overcompensated in the other direction, smashing into their partners beside them. Both cars flipped several times before exploding into the side of the freeway. White, Ronnie thought. He was almost positive that they had been white onions.

As the border neared, it was clear that no one had been warned of the high speed chase that had led up to this. Several of the gates were completely bare, allowing Ronnie to speed towards them with abandonment. 100 yards from the line, the car began to slow. At 60 yards, the car started to swerve a bit to the left. With only 10 yards to go, the car slowly careened into a lane divider as Ronnie's lifeless body smashed into the steering wheel, a single bullet having passed through back of the driver's seat and passing through his body into the dash. He hadn't seen a white light or pearly gates before he died. He instead saw his 16 year old self eating shrimp with his old man.

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