Cars with Snarling Hoods™ crumpled back in grotesque mockery jeered: they bared their capacious engines at her Nissan Glowe. Insult sirens set to maddening frequencies and sound patches with a choice mix of profanities made her understand:
“See the lights, damn it!”
The Honda behind her spat the lyrics twice; the low-slung bass-line and crisp hi-hat of last year’s nu-Raggamuffin hit rode above the other insults because of a subwoofer from hell. Janna wondered what could’ve possessed someone to ruin such a perfectly likeable tune, for nothing other than mindless road-raging.
“See the lights, damn it!”
She was flustered, and the shift stick in her Nissan finally overrode her fumbling, throwing itself into first…
“C-C-C-C See the lights, damn it!”
…and a swift second.
“D-d-d-damn it! Whatcha waitin’…”
Third, and the Nissan’s little tires screeched through the intersection.
The Honda swerved, black snake, to level beside her in the left lane. Its windows de-paqued at a fantastic speed; the expensive dark-to-light transition hinted at one thing: A Rider.
It was all Janna needed after a long drive from the airport in halting traffic.
The Honda kept pace alongside, and the man inside was gesturing furiously. She wouldn’t look, of course. She would. NOT. Look.
But she could sense the other driver at the very edge of periphery.
Honda Man saw that the… crucialness of his message wasn’t getting across. The de-paqued windows slid down completely then, to reveal him in the flesh.
“Hey, man! Ipfhu you don know how to drive, jasstu stay outta fucking way, man!”
The Nissan’s external mic pickups spelled out Honda Man’s message in crystal clear tones, cleaning the signal dutifully for Janna’s listening pleasure. The signal’s twin still reached her from outside, muffled by the noise of traffic.
More gas, Janna thought. Anything to put some distance between her and this raving lunatic.
“Hey! You don fuckin’ diss me, man!” said the Nissan’s speakers, just as the black shape glanced the fore left side of her little Glowe, making the headbeam blink shut protectively.
That was it. That. Was. It!
Janna retracted her own glass barriers, at a little under the speed with which the red heat swept up through her and smashed better judgement into little pieces:
“You can go FUCK yourself, okay?” Her arm flung out, tendons sprung like steel cables; middle finger extended in rigid defiance to coincide with the ‘uck’.
A torrent of some oriental dialect washes back at her, fluid and flippant in contrast with the warm, polluted breeze.
“…because of the stupid red light?” Janna yelled. “Get OVER it!” She revved again to get away, almost losing handling for a split-second before rallying up the road.Tags: Janna, Mark, The Treble