Blood-red mustang

Tom got out of bed in a panic. He knew one thing: you're going to be late! He quickly pulled on his pants, put on a shirt his wife had carefully ironed, and ran to the kitchen to eat. He didn't have time to prepare: he grabbed a slice of whole wheat bread and topped it with a piece of plump ham. He washed down the entire meal with almost ice-cold milk straight from the fridge. "Another delay, another scolding," he thought. After a very quick breakfast and morning toilet, he pulled on his shoes and ran to the car. He briskly pulled out of the driveway and began his journey to work. Tom had only recently started working at the bank. He had graduated from a good school and managed to land a job as a teller. It wasn't the height of his dreams, but he had to start somewhere. In less than ten minutes, he arrived at the branch, the large bank he worked for. He ran up a dozen or so steps and sat down at his desk. He greeted his coworkers with a cheerful gesture and began his daily, tedious work as a teller. He accepted and transferred money. Tom was just shy of thirty, tall and brown-haired. Girls had always fancied him, but he preferred to do other things. His true passion was cars. He'd recently enjoyed a new acquisition. He'd bought himself an old Mustang. A beautiful blood-red Ford from the sixties. He'd spent his last penny on it, but he thought it was worth it, because he wouldn't have found another car like this, in this condition, for this kind of money.

Hours passed, and Tom, with sweaty hands, handled thousands of dollars. He enjoyed it. He liked the smell and color of money. He only regretted that it couldn't be his own, that he was only giving it away and taking it from the city's poor.

Around one-fifteen p.m., a short, blue-eyed man arrived. He looked to be in his forties. He'd come to withdraw his savings.

"Good morning!

" "Good morning! How can I help you?" the teller asked politely.

"I'd like to withdraw cash from my savings account." He gave his name and all the necessary information for such a transaction.

"Now, please wait a moment." Tom entered the data into the computer and reached for the money. He counted the bills with a swift movement until he reached six thousand dollars. "Here you go," he said, passing it through the window to the customer.

"Thank you, goodbye!" replied the smiling forty-year-old.

He was one of many contractors that day, so Tom didn't pay much attention to the man, even though he was withdrawing a considerable sum from his account. Minutes, hours, passed until it was time to end the workday. Tom stood up, his back aching and demanding one thing: some exercise. So, after several hours of sitting, Tom headed towards the bar located near the bank. The two buildings were about two hundred meters apart, so soon the young financier found himself among a dozen or so men drinking beer, vodka, and whiskey, playing pool, and listening to the country music that was wildly popular in the area. "

I'll have a beer," he said calmly to the large, muscular bartender.

The bartender handed him a mug of the golden liquid. Tom downed it without a second thought. He needed it. So many hours of concentration and stress had released so much negative energy within him that he needed something to drink. Only the second beer helped. He glanced at his watch. The hand read 7:32 PM. He thought it was worth going home. His wife might be worried, the kids were waiting for their daddy, and he was sitting at the bar. He got up from his stool and headed for the door. And then Phil appeared. An old friend, from school.

"Hi," Tom replied, smiling.

"Hello, Tom! It's been a while since we last saw each other.

" "It'll be about five years," he replied politely.

"We have a drink to celebrate!"

"No," Tom said firmly.

"I'm buying it! Come on, won't you have a drink with an old friend?

" "Okay, but just one beer," he said firmly.

They sat down at the bar and started talking. It turned out he was the same age as Tom, hadn't started a family yet, but was doing quite well. He was a car mechanic, so he did what he liked. Tom still remembered how, in high school, his friend would build a small go-kart they'd drive around the neighborhood together. Phil wasn't ugly; girls were always chasing him, so Tom, without a second thought, asked why he was single. Why hadn't he found anyone to be involved with?

"I was in a relationship, not long ago, but everything fell apart.

" "What do you mean? Divorce?

" "Yeah, she cheated on me. With my friend. A friend, you know, man? A friend pulled a stunt on me," the previously calm Phil said, outraged.

"That's life, people are pigs who floundered," Tom said.

The two old friends drank two beers, Tom went to the restroom, where he relieved himself, and then they headed out.

"Phil, will you come with me?" the slightly intoxicated cashier asked.

"No, I don't want to bother you. I'll take a walk," Phil replied.

"What trouble? Giving a good old friend a ride would be a real pleasure!" Tom lied, trying to convince his friend to join him for a ride.

"Okay, if you insist," the mechanic replied, climbing into the blood-red Mustang.

"Nice piece of equipment," the mechanic replied as Tom drove off with a screech of tires. "

I know, I know, I've been working on it for the past few years. I didn't buy myself anything fancy because I knew I had to get it," the driver said, pleased with the compliments.

"Show me what it can do," the passenger replied, his voice rising.

"Okay!" Tom roared, flooring the accelerator. The engine roared, the tachometer registering 8,000 rpm. The engine was revving like a herd of horses pulling a sleigh. The speedometer reached the magical 120 mph. Tom glanced at Phil, who, seeing Tom's reaction, complimented the car and its owner.

It was 9 p.m. The weather was miserable. A light drizzle and bitterly cold. The Mustang's headlights provided just enough light to see a few meters ahead. Tom, however, drove confidently, only letting off the gas on the curves. He knew this road like the back of his hand, having driven it every day, morning and evening.

As the speedometer hovered around a hundred miles per hour, a man appeared in front of the car. Tom didn't even have time to react. An American sports car—every young boy's dream—slammed into the man with all its force. The body flew almost six feet above the ground and slammed into the coal-black asphalt. Tom slammed on the brakes, the car skidded, but the driver managed to control it. Phil froze. He looked at Tom and screamed, "You killed him! You fucking killed him!" A

chill ran down Tom's spine. Distraught, he put the car in reverse. They both got out of the car and approached the body of a middle-aged man who looked like someone hit by a train. His face was covered in blood, his skull fractured from the impact with the hard asphalt. Tom, having taken a first aid course at work, tried to save the victim, but he couldn't believe it himself. He was certain. He was dead. He had no chance. After several attempts at resuscitation, it turned out to be true. Tom's first thought was that, as an upstanding citizen, he should go to the police. He suggested this to Phil.

"Are you stupid? How much did you drink?

" "Well, sure, after a few beers, he might be feeling a bit down," Tom replied sluggishly, shaken.

"Damn it! What are we going to do?

" "I have an idea. Let's hide the body and pretend nothing happened!" the shaking mechanic suggested

. "And how can I justify the car having such damage? The whole front end is completely destroyed.

" "True, I'm not a body shop mechanic. Hmm, I don't know. I need a drink," Phil drawled.

"The important thing is that I know what I'm going to do. I'll say my Ford was stolen, go home, and tell my wife to confirm that I went home right after work.

" "Do you want to get involved with her?" Phil asked firmly.

"Do I have any other option?

" "Call the police, tell them your car was stolen and you went out drinking. You had a few beers at the bar and took a cab home. Hmm. There are plenty of taxis in this town, so the police won't check anything," an old friend suggested. "

I'll do that," Tom agreed, nodding. "

Oh, that was such a nice Ford," Tom thought, realizing he was thinking about the car, not the person he'd killed just minutes earlier." He and Phil turned into the nearby woods and walked under the cover of darkness. The rain made it hard for me to feel comfortable. Besides, how could anyone feel comfortable after killing someone? It's impossible. Unless you're a hitman, of course. Tom wasn't. They walked for a good half hour until a gas station appeared before them. He reached a telephone booth and called 911. He called the police, telling a story about his car disappearing from outside the bank. The officer noted everything and notified the police units circulating in the city and surrounding areas. "

Look for a red 1968 Mustang," he called over the radio

. Phil said goodbye to Tom and headed home. Tom did the same, but took a taxi. On the way home, he reflected on what had happened and realized he hadn't acted wisely, but it couldn't be undone. What happened happened. Things happen. Around 11:30 p.m., he showed up at his doorstep.

"Where were you?" Kate asked aggressively.

"At the bar. I had to have a drink. My car was stolen!" he lied like a true gambler.

"That it had to happen to us too!" the young woman said sadly.

Tom didn't want to get into an argument, but he quickly went to the bathroom and took a hot shower. Then he lay down on the bed and quickly fell asleep.

The next day would have started as usual, if not for a visit from a police officer demanding an explanation for the missing car. Just a few minutes after the theft was reported, the car was found, along with the victim's body. Initial suspicion fell on Tom, as all the evidence pointed to him. He had hit a man and, to avoid responsibility, reported the theft to the police.

"Hello! Mr. Marvel?

" "Yes, it's me. What did you come to me about? I assume it's about the theft," the banker asked calmly, his face straight

. "Yes, that's exactly what I'm talking about. I have a few questions for you.

" "Excuse me.

" "Where were you between 9:00 PM and 10:00 PM yesterday?" the policeman asked inquisitively.

"Right after work, I went to a bar to drown my sorrows and spent a few hours there.

" "I'm surprised you didn't call the police first."

"I completely forgot about it. I was shaken, devastated by this fact. I didn't know what to do, so I decided to drown my sorrows in alcohol.

" "I understand," the older officer announced in disbelief. The cop meticulously noted everything Marvel said in his black, rectangular notebook.

"Can the bartender confirm that you were there that long?

" "I think so," Tom lied without hesitation. "

Thank you, we'll go to the bar and ask a few questions." The bartender, of course, confirmed Tom's statement, but only up to a point. The muscular man had a very good memory and without hesitation said that around 9:00 PM he had left his workplace with a man.

The officer knew one thing: Something wasn't right. He would have to go to Mr. Marvel. He was hiding something. Once he had decided, he did. He went to the bank and called his boss, who called Tom, interrupting his work.

"Where were you between 9:00 and 11:00 PM?" the officer asked bluntly.

"In the bar," Tom said, not knowing what to say.

"The bartender denies it. He only says you were there until about 9:00 PM.

" "I can't believe it. There were so many people in the bar, so maybe he mistook me for someone else," he tried to defend himself.

"I doubt it, but never mind. I have one more question. Who was in the bar with you?" the officer asked menacingly.

"No one was with me. I was drinking alone! I was drowning my sorrows alone!" he tried to defend Phil. "

Okay, we'll take your story down, but don't leave town. You're a suspect.

" "Okay," the cashier said, confused

. His wife, who was nearby and had been listening to the entire conversation, began to cry. She knew her husband was lying. It wasn't actually crying, but sobbing. She had a feeling this was going to end badly. Tom tried to keep a straight face and show no emotion until the officer left. When the officer left, Tom approached Kate, hugged her, and assured her everything would be okay. He didn't believe it himself, but he didn't want to complicate his lovely wife's life any further.

The officer learned that the person Tom was with was Phil. A mechanic who lived a dozen or so miles outside the city. He went to his place and found him tinkering with his car.

"Hello, sir! My name is Chuck Travis, and I'm a police officer. I need to ask you a few questions," Chuck announced.

Phil didn't know what to do. He grabbed a wrench and threw it at the officer. Then, oblivious to everything, he began to flee. He ran as fast as he could toward the woods. He thought that if he escaped from this officer, his nightmare would be over. He was wrong. His escape ended with an encounter with a police car. Phil quickly relented, explained the whole situation, and blamed Tom entirely. The police arrested Marvel that same day.