Luke Joseph Hoskisson

A Guy Ritchie style car-chase through the streets of London which satirises just how far people will go to conform to societal pressures.

The Fuel Injection

Freya’s Fiat 500 rattles as it hits one hundred miles per hour. Not because of the speed or any mechanical issue mind, but because an empty can of Diet Coke bounces about on the back seats. Freya weaves in and out of traffic with ease, so much so that jealous, fellow drivers ask rhetorical questions like “Well, that’s just dangerous, isn’t it?”

Freya was slippier than an avocado seed…yet she just couldn’t shake Justine whose all-black Mercedes G-wagon/miniature tank was surprisingly nimble. 

Justine was fierce. And like the big cat that her Charlotte Simone coat imitated, you couldn’t take your eyes off her…for fear she would tear you apart. The rumour that Justine was the original inspiration for the mob-wife look played on Freya’s mind.

But Freya was going to get rid of her. She’d seen the car chases in films, where the plucky one only slightly ahead just manages to cut across the moving train, whilst the car in-chase is forced to break hard, give up pursuit, and return for revenge later in act three. Well, Freya was in a film – or a short story at the very least – and she was fast approaching the level crossing.

So far she’d timed everything perfectly. Her car would just about squeeze past the 13:07 Thameslink service from Brighton to Blackfriars, whereas her assailant would be forced to stop. Freya glanced down at her passenger seat where the little white cardboard box sat. Who would have known that such a seemingly harmless container could be capable of causing so much drama?

Freya slammed on the hand brake and drifted around the sharp corner. Less than ten meters beyond, was the level crossing where the train – currently hidden from view by a large brick wall – would inevitably be in a few moments. Her foot smashed the accelerator pedal into the floor and stayed there. The rattling in her car had stopped – even the empty can of Diet Coke had strapped itself in. Freya held her breath as she reached the crossing…

***

“Hello passengers, this is your driver speaking.” the train’s intercom relayed, “We’ve had to stop here because of a mechanical fault.” 

The passengers groan, sending a strong message to the train companies.

“And to be honest, I’m not sure how long we’ll be stuck here- SHIT WAS THAT A CAR?!”

A different voice sighed into the speakers: “This is the train manager speaking, please excuse my colleague’s poor language; he’s just as disappointed as you all are with the delay, you see. Some good news however, as we have stopped, we will be able to keep the snack bar open a little longer so please do pay us a visit. But remember, the card reader is currently out of order, so we’ll only be accepting cash. Thank you.”

“SHIT! ANOTHER ONE!” the driver belted out. He really did not need to share that with the whole train.

***

Freya’s alive, she thinks, unless her afterlife is simply being surprised that the same black G-wagon remains in her rearview mirror. 

Nope. She’s alive. Damn, Freya thought.

“Damn?!” Maybe it’s just the fact that Freya continues to be chased by some psycho who might literally scratch her eyes out with their acrylics, but still, Freya must remember to mention the morbid feeling in her next session.

Justine was so close behind Freya now that Freya could almost see where the wrinkles on Justine’s forehead were supposed to be and-

CRASH.

Freya comes round, just as Justine nears her window. Freya lowers it.

“Alright babes, nasty crash” Justine says. 

“What do you mean? I thought I parked quite well.” Freya responds. 

“Hand it over,” demands Justine.

Freya doesn’t have the strength to stay in the fight. She takes the little box in hand and presents it to Justine. For a split second, Freya wonders if it was all even worth it.

She pushes away the thought. Freya was proud of her effort, of her little…rebellion. It wasn’t even really about the box anyway, it was about what it represented. It represented a millennia in progress. It represented science, beauty, art. It represented humanity’s desire to improve lives. The little white box represented civilised society. It represented the modern world!

“One month’s supply.” Justine remarks. “That’ll do”.

Yes, the little white cardboard box containing eight milligrams of Ozempic was originally conceived as a life-changing treatment for diabetes, but it had become so much more than that for thousands of symptom-free, healthy, sexy slim people. It had come to represent…staying skinny. And that was worth fighting for.

“I might try Monjaro instead soon.” Justine considers. “You can get that at Boots now, you know?”

Freya gives her two cents, “Monjaro makes me throw up”.

“And?” Justine wonders. Then. “You know, I would normally take this matter further…but you look like shit as it is.”

Freya’s just been in a car crash…but that really hurt.

“Right, well, I’m off now”. Justine declares. “I’’ve got well-being retreats to endorse. Ta ra.”

Justine returns to her car.

Freya opens her door and collapses onto the road. Don’t worry, by the way, she’s fine; it’s just that she’s been surviving on a black coffee and half a rice cake for the past twenty-four hours. 

Amy Winehouse’s Love is a Losing Game begins playing out of Justine’s stereo as she drives away.

The adrenaline starts to wear off and Freya’s concussion and empty-stomach begin to take their toll. She vomits into a pot-hole on the road, next to the detached wing-mirror of her smashed-up Fiat 500. Freya catches a glimpse of her struggling self in the mirror. “Fuck this”, she mutters, “I’m getting a Maccies”.