Which thug was a worse driver? It was a toss up. What Weasel lacked in a sense of direction he made up for with speed, cursing and crazily careening around corners. Warthog knew where they were going, and he even looked both ways at intersections. (Granted he was usually in the middle of said intersection, but at least he tried.) Their combined skills as it turned out was something truly terrifying. Dave had once seen a woman drive with her bare foot sticking out the window, but even this was nothing compared to the acrobatics performed by the Weasel and Warthog as they changed drivers in the middle of a high-speed chase.

Horror twisted in the accountant’s gut as Weasel released the wheel and scurried into the back seat practically falling onto Dave’s lap. The car tilted two wheels up on a sidewalk before Warthog could bring it back onto the street his massive girth shimmying around the gear shift. His left foot stomped the accelerator, (his right foot was stranded on the passenger side), causing the vehicle to squeal almost as loudly as Dave was.

“Relax man I’ve got this,” Warthog grunted, he was still trying to extricate his size fifteen combat boot scraping it across equipment that no doubt cost tax payers a lot of money. “Sorry we couldn’t save you earlier, but you know how hard it is to load a semi-automatic.”

Dave did not know how hard it was to load a semi-automatic.

“I thought for sure we’d get you outside the police station.”

“Wait. You two were the ones trying to kill me?”

“Kill you?” Weasel cut in shaking a box that jingled like a maraca. “We weren’t trying to kill you we were trying to rescue you.”

“Actually, we were trying to distract the officers, so we could set up our special package in the back.”

“That’s not very comforting.”

Weasel shrugged and emptied the contents of his box out the window. A moment later he was rewarded with loud pops and screeching metal. He pulled out another box.

“Stop that!” Dave tried to pry the box away from the thug. Weasel tugged back. Rip. Spiky metal spheres dropped to the floor.

“Uh-oh.” Weasel’s squinty eyes widened to the size of a normal person’s.

“Uh-oh? What’s uh-oh?” Warthog called from the front.

“Dave dropped the spike balls.”

“Uh-oh.”

Weasel scurried to pick up the balls tossing each one out the window faster than Dave could blink.

Dave knew he didn’t want to know the answer, but he asked the question anyway. “Why is that uh-oh?”

“Spike balls are like mini grenades only with a delayed blast on impact of about a minute and you just threw a whole box of them under our feet.”

Dave scrambled for the diminutive death balls silently apologizing for every one he threw down the street.

“Okay,” Weasel panted, “I think that’s all of them.”

BOOM!

The car actually jumped as the spike ball punched a hole into the floor and the passenger seat became a small inferno (fortunately Warthog’s right foot was safely on the gas pedal at the time). Weasel frantically beat at the fire with his jacket, but if anything, the flames grew larger.

We’re gonna have to bail!” Warthog exclaimed.

“But there’s no handles back here!”

It was too late, Warthog had already jumped from the car. There was no time for Weasel and Dave to jump. They slammed into a lamp post the hood pressed into an accordion with a giant screech.

This is it, Dave thought, this is how I’m going to die. His vision went red and then black.