The cacophony of metal cutting metal screeches,
burying the sound of 2,000 automobile engines, one train,
and 45 yapping onlookers.
I am self-actualizing.
The ******* Oriental who cut me off
learns the meaning of justice in a hair-split second.
I howl as I force his car further to the side of the road.
He's yelping, feeling fright claw his once-proud brain.
I look up, trying to keep my car on the road.
We tear past shopfront after shopfront,
patrons wailing, pointing, finally finding
something mad enough to put down their forks.
I see skeletal trees,
overshadowed by a red wrecking ball,
an out-of-business record shop,
the metal still crying the most demonic
siren's song.
Further I push him,
he's on pavement,
my little Oriental enemy.
I look at him again.
His knuckles are milk white,
his brow covered with perspiration,
his mouth bleeding from his own bite.
Then he hits.
A stoplight post of solid steel,
with three or so feet of concrete surrounding.
I learn he isn't wearing a seat belt.
Glass grinds his delicate skin, he catapults through the air,
then flattens against a newspaper dispenser.
Then I hit.
A **** Suburban in front of me,
who had stopped to watch the carnage,
now found itself partaking.
I have my seatbelt on,
the bags deploy,
thumping my head and
chest like a crippled bolt of lightning.
The Suburban spins into oncoming traffic,
getting further rearranged by
a pile-up of moaning metal.
My truck comes to a stop.
Smoke cascades languidly,
as humans shout in unison,
"I hope you have good insurance!"
I walk back fifteen yards to the
newspaper dispenser.
The Oriental man twitches,
blood pooling about his head
and left arm.
I stoop down closer to him,
look at his silent Rorschach ****** features,
gaze over my shoulder.
The Suburban lies in smoldering ribbons,
driver probably trying to get into heaven.
Shouts continue, building upon one another,
a crowd gathers around me,
whispers all similar to "what the hell happened?"
flame up and burn through the collective.
"Did you know him?" a small black boy,
with teeth of snow asks.
"Not real well, but don't worry kid, he wasn't a good man."
I rummage through the crowd until I break through,
I hear sirens of some sort in the distance,
unclear of cop or ambulance,
I survey the damage to my truck-
a light busted out,
bent bumper,
and what looks like a few holes drilled into the grill.
I open the door,
clumsily ruffle the airbag,
put my key in the ignition,
and to my delight
when I turn the beast,
it purrs submissively.
I grin, let my fingertips
briefly dance on the steering wheel,
and put the truck in reverse.
© 2011 by J.J. Hutton
