Breakout

Careening off the interstate seems to be a theme for the battered blue Toyota that never dies, though it slashes through guardrails and rolls through ditches.  I am in invincible, bulletproof, on the verge of being able to fly and leave this stupid car in the dust behind me, never again worrying about the money that spews forth from the exhaust pipes or the blood that pools on the ground behind, too much for survival but too little to account for everything, so you know there's a broken body still hidden in a shallow grave somewhere along the road.  I can still be brought down by the right shot and the woman in the lab coat knows how to take it, and for all my abilities I can't break through the cold steel of handcuffs or the harsh iron of prison bars or even the one disparaging glance of the man in tan, all conspiring to hold me in and keep me from doing a shred of good.