Ottawa, Ontario CANADA | Wednesday April 2, 2070 | 1:45 am EDT
Grant sat on his bed in the silence of his bedroom in the basement of his family’s home. He had had absolutely enough. Grant was a 19 year old sophomore at nearby Carleton University so he was able to save some money living at home with his parents at least for the time being. It certainly wasn’t bad being the son of the current Prime Minister of Canada in some respects. He had plenty of space, which his parents allowed him to call his own.
Being the son of James Slone did not help with the heat Grant took from his fellow classmates at Carleton though. Puberty had never been on Grant’s side, and at this point in his life, Grant still struggled with acne. His peers would not let him forget it. Every day, Grant had to endure the abuse of his fellow adult learners calling him “Zit Head.” Some would do unspeakable things to him in the halls.
Grant Slone couldn’t handle this anymore, they were all adults, shouldn’t this part of his life be over and done with by now?
Day after day, he pleaded with them to stop abusing him with their words and actions, but they would not. Grant had talked to his family about how he was being hurt. They told him “it was a shame that bullying still happened in the adult world.” That was as far as the conversation ever got. Grant’s father being Prime Minister as he was, was subject to Political bullying from the opposition party all the time. He would often say to his son “I wish there was something we could do to stop this abuse….for both of us. For now we need to keep on trucking.”
If they would not stop bullying him, Grant was going to take matters into his own hands.
Grant moved from his bed to a nearby desk, and pulled out a pad and a pen. These were still used from time to time. Grant was going to write his parents a note. It said the following.
Sorry,
Had to leave.
Grant crept towards his bedroom door, he had no bags, it would make travel much lighter. He inched open the ancient wooden door. It creaked with the effort, Grant hoped his parents hadn’t heard. He crept up the stairs and and found a side entrance. He opened the door and currently was outside in the fresh April Ottawa air.
Grant sprinted towards a garage where the personal vehicles of the Prime Minister and his family were kept. He found his favourite throwback Dodge Charger. Before Grant could escape in his dream ride it needed one simple modification.
Grant popped the hood and exposed the engine, it was much more electronic than mechanical. The engine itself was smooth and oval shaped, everything needed to make it run was stowed away in compartments that fit seamlessly into the oval structure to prevent damage from the outside. Very few people could even fathom working on these engines anymore, as they were much more complex than ever before.
Grant’s major happened to be in Electro-Mechanics. He would have no problem negotiating this chaos of an engine to make the needed modification.
Grant found the central pivot of the engine and was able to turn it a full 180 degrees. Selecting a panel at the back he opened it, exposing three wires. Grant cut all of these, closed the panel and returned the engine to its original position. Grant wanted no limits on this trip. Grant wanted to go as fast as this beast of a car would let him.
Grant activated the gull wing door to the drivers side of the Charger via thumb print scan. Car theft had fallen to an all time low since this technology was implemented. He slid his absolutely disgusting zit laden body into the car’s supple leather seat. It was the most comfortable seat one could be sitting in, even when Grant was so disgusted with himself. This moment and what was to come would be Grant’s finest hour as far as he was concerned.
“It’s go time.” Grant said to himself. Grant hardly talked to anyone else, so he had gotten used to having conversations out loud with himself and did not feel at all weird about it. He hit the large red starter button. The engine responded with a mighty roar. Grant hit the accelerator and powered out of the garage. He immediately tapped the brakes because he was going too fast to meander safely through the narrow driveways out to the street. Grant drove by his family’s private living quarters, much more modern than the ancient parliament buildings that his father worked it. Grant noticed lights turning on inside the house. He knew his father knew something was up.
“Whatever,” Grant said to himself, “It’s not like he’ll be able to catch me. He turned south onto Sussex drive and motored away at 160 kilometers per hour.
Grant quickly merged onto the Autoroute de la Gatineau heading west and crossing the Ottawa River into Hull, Quebec. Grant watched the streetlights play over the car’s immaculate black paint job with red racing stripes.
Grant breathed in.
200 kilometers per hour.
Gran t exhaled.
400 kilometers per hour.
Grant saw what he was looking for and it was approaching very quickly.
Grant tapped the orange overdrive switch and watched as nitro flames escaped from the car’s exhaust
1,200 kilometers per hour.
“Finally!” “FREEDOM!” Grant yelled triumphantly to himself.
Grant flicked the steering wheel ever so slightly to the right instantly sending the car into a large concrete barrier which separated the highway from an exit ramp.
The car completely disintegrated around Grant in a fiery inferno. Grant’s soul was instantly ripped away from his body, while his body was left to burn with the rest of the car. A putrid odor filled the air. Finally, the fuel cell exploded. The only useful thing that was left was the Charger’s black box, mandated on all cars for just such an emergency.
Flames continued to lick away at the remains of both machine and body.