How to Steal a Rolls-Royce

I won't go into why it's a bad idea to even have a Rolls dealership anywhere near anything with the words "Section 8" anywhere within twenty miles. You shouldn't even have a bus stop nearby. Rolls' are expensive as hell for a reason. But anyway, someone made the mistake of having a dealership right here in my fair city, right next to our Sector 5. A man (Think Thug-nificent from The Boondocks) walks in, finds what he guesses to be the youngest, least experienced, possibly retarded employee he can, and asks for a test drive. I don't know what the steps are in getting hired to sell cars for RR, but they can't be very stringent. Men who are utterly unable to dress themselves are probably not going to buy a Rolls, but whatever. The employee grabs a key, gets in the Rolls and off they go. After a couple blocks, our enterprising criminal decides that he likes the car, produces his "get out of my car" stick (a 9 mm) and motions the employee out of the car.

Now, it's really not that hard to find a Rolls near Section 8 housing. I think it took us 8 minutes from when the call was placed. So we found the car, and followed it. We have a pretty strict rule about chasing, but he was doing 35 mph or so, so nobody called it a chase. Just a "cold trail" (try that with your AWC). Apparently Mr. Thug also knew that he probably wasn't going to get away with this, so instead of running, he just drove past his friends' places and honked and waved, and showed off for about 45 minutes, each time getting back on the freeway to head to his starting point and do it again. The last time though, he'd just gotten onto a surface road when we spot an old, beat up, clearly-a-hook-car, Ford Crown Vic crest the off ramp, aim his wheels at the Rolls, and come tearing down the hill to T bone that thing.

For those who don't know, a Rolls runs somewhere around 100 grand. Initially we thought it was some rival dealer, or gang member, or maybe just a pissed off ex. Negative. Both vehicles came to a stop, and Pookie surrendered, and we see this cartoon parody of a southern cop (he was a security guard) step out of his POS. Big gut, big hat, southern drawl, Wilford Brimley mustache.

"I heard y'all can't chase, so I stopped 'im for ya."

The only thing he didn't do was spit out a wad of chewing tobacco right then.