Drabble. Written for Day 5 of Torchwood Fest.
Score of the Century
It was his best score, ever really. Billy Smith had just stolen the most flash SUV this side of Cardiff. Dark windows. Beautiful leather interior. State of the art sound system. Oh, oh and that siren. That wonderful siren. What he could do with that thing-making folks think the copper was coming to scare 'em off his turf was just the tip of the ice burg.
He inspected his prize, which looked like it belonged in some American telly program about explosions and stuff. He played with the navigation system. Beautiful, had to be the newest model. It even told you who lived at what place. Well, sort of. You needed a password to get further than that which he didn't have. And wasn't enough of a chump to try-probably some premium service scam. The nerve of some people.
He popped the trunk of his gem. And ran. Ran far, far away to the hills when he saw it. A corpse. It almost resembled a fellow wearing a Halloween mask. Charred skin and wrinkled features. Snarled teeth. Billy was not going to deal with this shit. Score of the century or not.