Being Butch Green || ✓

Chapter 1 - Stolen Things are Always the Best

None of what happened was my fault.

Well, that's what I tell myself anyways.

In my mind, it wasn't my fault that I'd gone and "borrowed" the worst possible getaway car, and it certainly wasn't my fault that I was currently driving that very same car down a small, windy, dangerous country road after dark – that was just a matter of bad navigational skills. It also wasn't my fault that I was heading outbound of Melbourne, still rather confused at my exact whereabouts as I glanced over at the green numbers illuminating the dashboard.

"Half-past twelve," I muttered. That meant I was still roughly an hour ahead of the police, and to be honest, I didn't know how much longer this damned truck would hold up for. The air that flowed in through the gap in the window was cold and harsh, reaffirming the apprehensive feeling knotting my stomach into a rope.

I glanced at the passenger seat and its lonely occupant. I'd much rather prefer if it was a dead rat, but no. My stupid ass had gotten myself in deep trouble when I pulled off this stunt. I pushed my glasses further up my nose and sighed, gritting my teeth.

"Stupid yellow file," I slithered through them, observing the crunched papers next to me. "Never trust your gut, I tell you. You hear that, God? I promise this wasn't intentional!"

I shook my head. I really was screwed. My philosophy of stealing the right information, my information, would theoretically get me out of trouble. But apparently that wasn't the case when you put Butch Green in charge of his own escape heist. Sometimes mistakes aren't worth a second thought, but when those mistakes lead to your demise, you definitely know it shouldn't be worth it.

I sighed, biting my lip.

"You and I are like two peas in a pod," I said to the file. "Both too dangerous for our own good. Well, perhaps not me, I couldn't hurt an orange if I tried, it'd just end up taking revenge on me and somehow, it'd squirt me in the face with citrus juice. But you, oh you, well...you're well and truly fucked my friend."

I patted it reassuringly as it sat there staring blankly back at me from the cosy bubble of its own freedom. It certainly was tasting freedom by this point - and my terrible driving skills. I only wanted to return the damned bugger, but now I feared that if I got caught my scrawny arse would be sent straight to jail. Or worse - if the other guys tailgating me on the highway found me.

I shivered, hoping anyone currently passing me on the road would just assume I was some teenage boy, newly licensed, going out for a joyride in his dad's banged-up Ute. They'd be stupid to think that at all. First off, let's get one thing straight; I don't have a license. Hell, I didn't even pass the computerized learner's test after five tries! Waste of a hundred bucks if you ask me.

But that didn't matter. My driving skills didn't matter. Keeping from getting shot mattered and every second I managed to drive the car on the right side of the road was an achievement in itself. The road was covered in black ice which made it impeccably hard to steer as I slipped and slid across the roads' frosty surface. I have so far managed to avoid crashing the car, and I hope it stays that way, but the possibility of that ever happening is slim.

I can't see much more than a meter in front of me, and I leaned over the steering wheel with a certain squinting twitch in the hopes that it would make it easier for me to see the ground spontaneously appearing below the car. But I think the point of genius runaway kid ends there.

I bit my lip, looking up at the frost beginning to crack at the edges of the windshield and then at the mist that danced across the broken beam of light from the only working headlight. A beaded necklace with a silver cross hung from the rear-view mirror, banging against the windscreen with each pothole in the most irritating way. I eyed it off; a flash in the mirror catching the silver of the cross and reflecting straight into my pupil.