*Just Burn It!* The High Speed Chase Mix! (Plus narrative!) /// The Burning Ear

I know, I know, tough economic times, devastating financial collapse, 800000 billion dollar bailout, blah, blah, blah. Are you gonna keep whining like a schoolgirl with a skinned knee or are you gonna do something about your fiscal apocalypse? What should I do, you ask? Well dummy, do what normal people do when they are hard up for dough, rob a damn bank. Its a stick up, baby, and this is your getaway mix! Get a CDR and Just Burn It!

Narrative of your adventure, track-list, and download link after the jump.

The Fashion hits your ears as you burst through the double glass doors in super slow-motion. So much adrenaline is pumping through your veins you feel like you could rip a phone book in half. As the guitars pick up you feel unstoppable. You feel like a vampire with gold teeth, ready to pimp this sleepy city like Dracula from his castle top. Before you can blink you are in the car with the windows down peeling out of the parking lot. For a moment all you can hear is your own thumping carburetor, but the rhythmic silence silence is quickly broken by the primal scream of police sirens in the distance. It is instantly clear: You can’t go back now. You thought you would have more time before they caught up to you. Your mind races as you furiously brainstorm for an out. Shitdisco, what do you do now? You wonder weather the cops will back off if you just yell “I know kung fu!” out the window. You try it. They don’t seem to care. Damn. It looks like your goose is cooked. Not much to do besides hunker down, be a man, and drive. You slip black gloves onto shaky hands and grip the steering wheel with a vengeance. The metronomy of the sirens have been pushed to the back of your consciousness as you focus on the task at hand. Time to get on the motorway. With the constant pedestrian and motorist obstacles behind you it’s time to use one hand to fish your cell phone from your sack of cash. Time to call your estranged girlfriend and tell you her love her. Its a good thing this song is instrumental because you were never very good at concentrating when people were singing. Its ringing. She answers. She is pissed. After she rakes you over the coals for a minute she furiously hangs up. That’s when the paralyzing terror hits you. You are in this alone, big boy. Flashing lights are closing in your rear-view mirror as tears swell up in your eyes. You barely spot the exit sign for Mae Shi Rd but pulling a hard right puts you back onto surface streets. The lamb and the lion game is over. For now. Three blocks away is your estranged, and now furious, ex-girlfriends house. You make it there in record time and there she is, sitting on the curb at 303. You lean out the window yelling “baby, pretty baby, goddammit I can’t do it alone!” Her eyes are streaked black with mascara as she runs away screaming “Louis, 14 fuck-ups is too much! Its over!” Se doesn’t want the guilt by association. That’s fair. Realizing the selfishness of trying to bring her into your mess only makes you cry harder. You barely hear the sirens over the heartbeat pounding through your ears. Pulling yourself together you mash the pedal to the floor and peel out. Your newly confirmed solitude gives you strength and your fighting spirit is brand new. As you round the corner heading to the 10 freeway you see them. The swath of squad cars ahead make you feel like William Wallace coming up on the archers at the Battle of Stirling. You only hope that they wont cut off your balls. This sucks but that looked like it would suck more. Figuring the best way out is to end things yourself you dislocate the cyanide pill you had installed in your molar during your post 9-11 paranoia that you would be kidnapped by any guy with a beard. The pill dissolves quickly and the sweetness of sugar floods the tip of your tongue. Damn, it was a placebo. Not cool, spy shop, not cool. The pavement between you and the wall of Crown Victorias is rapidly closing. As you and your thumping carburetor hurtle across the last few black meters you murmur to yourself “See you at the bitter en…”

In case you didn’t get it, you are dead. Or you would be, or whatever. So, what did you learn? Robbing banks is actually a really stupid idea! Duh. Better you treat this mix as a “Driving” mix and leave the bank robbing to the big boys.