Trust me, it's chicken

Trundling smoothly through the dark, dashboard lights glowing sweetly green, catseyes flicking into view and ducking underneath, playing Bowie and singing along, I had slithered down the greasy pipe and would now be heroes for ever and ever, when I fumbled a juggle and swore. I swerved briefly from one lane into the other and back again. I straightened up and started mopping at my shirt and lap, when the headlights behind me went to full beam.

I flicked the mirror to dip, and changed back into the left-hand lane. The bright lights followed me over, and were much closer and brighter. I sped up a little, and they fell back for a few seconds, and then closed rapidly on me again. I slowed, and so did they. I switched on my left-hand indicator for a couple of winks to say, 'pass me, then'. They switched on their blue flashing light. I said 'bugger', and pulled up.

One figure got out of the car and walked up through the headlights to the side of my door. I wound down the window. "Turn off the engine and get out of the car please, Sir". I did as he said. "Take your hands away from your trousers, please". Reluctantly, I did so. There was a long pause.

"You filthy, stupid, mindless piece of wasted scum", said the voice.

"It's not what it looks like", I tried to say, but was cut off.

"We've sat there for the past five miles wondering just what someone has to have been drinking or taking to be driving as badly as you, and I put my money on weed, but neither of us would have guessed this".

"It really isn't what you think it is", I repeated, but I wasn't going to get a chance to finish.

"It looks, Sir, to me, Sir, that you, Sir, are a filthy perverted twisted piece of arse-wipe cloth that shouldn't be let loose on the streets. Sir. It looks to me, Sir, that you need a lot more than just a ticket for careless driving. Sir."

The lights on the police car flashed, and a voice called "Trouble on the slip-road, three involved, we're called".

He took the torch beam off me, and said "If it wasn't for the fact that there are decent people up there trapped and injured, you'd be in the back of my car in handcuffs. Don't ever let me catch you on my road again. Ever."

The car sped off. I watched it go, then opened the door and felt around under my seat, then under the pedals, and finally found the cup. Most of the chicken soup had been soaked up by the footwell carpet, some was still left in the cup, and a small but adequate amount was plastered over my waistband and the front of my trousers.