Waiting until nightfall, I figured that the best way to get to where I needed to go was to commandeer a motorcycle and drive on the highways, like some sort of outlaw biker.
Luckily, there was a solitary man on a motorcycle just across the street at a gas station, who would prove an easy target for me. Stealthily prowling across the street, I waited for him to move behind the building and to get as close as possible to his vehicle, when I sidled up behind him, choked him unconscious, revved up his bike, and started the long journey south, though not before putting my fedora in the man's backpack, which I also stole - he's the guy from whom I acquired the laptop on which I write these posts - and equipped his helmet; safety first, after all.
The drive was uneventful for the first hour or so, but it took a turn for the worse when I saw to my horror that four robed cultists had started pursuing me on their own motorbikes. I recognised the sigil on their robes immediately; it was the emblem of my oldest nemesis, the death-god who wears a ridiculous gas mask.
"Well, isn't this great," I thought, "now the Fears will surely know where I am.
"Not where I'm going, though," I then realised, and, figuring that I needed to lose those cultists before they could figure out my scheme, immediately started driving the speed limit, causing them to rocket past me and into the back of two trucks which were in front of me. Ramping over one of the overturned bikes allowed me to careen over the fiery wreckage and to continue on my journey uninhibited for a while.
Little did I realise, though, that my own motorcycle had sustained damage from jumping through a huge fire, and was beginning to fail on me. After maybe another hour of driving after the chase, the bike started to shudder frenziedly. Pulling off to the side, the bike rended itself apart once I was off of it, much to my dismay.
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