A Nagging Little Voice

Kelly could see the rubber uselessly dragging over the windshield, smearing the ice, making matters only worse. He'd buy new wipers, he told himself again.

The blue, blinding light was bearing down on him, blinding him through his frost-streaked mirrors.

Again.

Every morning, a new asshole.

He'd told himself not to get angry. It doesn't help the situation, and it only served to ruin his morning. He glanced down at the speedometer, jaw tightening when he noticed again, this morning like every morning, that he was going well over the speed limit, but it didn't stop the relentless truck from bearing down on him, as one always did.

He'd come up with a story for this kind of person. They fit the stereotype he'd carefully crafted. The exterior was easy; He'd be wearing a pair of white Oakley sunglasses, and his shirt, or maybe his jacket, would inevitably say something about the MMA, Racing, or motorbikes. This was easy to prove with a quick glance.

It was the personality that would involve a little more conjecture.

Kelly figured the driver must be as racist as modern society now allows, that would be a given. And, of course, despite living in the near arctic tundra, he'd talk about American sports all day, and he'd likely try to name-drop athletes only by their nicknames.

The driver of the truck would blame all his irrational rage on others and mutter "I need a fuckin' cigarette" at least 3 times a day. He'd gather together in groups of clones of himself every weekend and talk about or watch things involving off-roading, MMA, racing, motorbikes, American sports, white Oakley sunglasses, and how much they hate that brown guy down the street. Or, better yet, that brown guy in the bar right beside them.

That was the kind of asshole Kelly invented behind the wheel every day.

He knew how to deal with this kind of asshole: Stare at him when he passed him by. That would teach him.

The problem was, they didn't always pass him by. He figured they got so close to his bumper to taunt him. That must be why. They could sense, nay, SMELL how weak he was. Kelly unconsciously gripped the wheel, twisting it, the grinding sound of his hands matching that of his teeth.

My god, He thought. I can see the whites of his eyes.

I could slam on my brakes, he thought. A small, awkward smile formed on his chapped lips. He'd buy new lip balm, he told himself again.

But then, a nagging little voice took over his thoughts.

Maybe the man in the truck has had earth-shattering news about someone he loves. He just took off, just a few minutes ago, after having a life-altering experience. He just found out his wife is leaving him, his daughter is moving away, his son is going to jail, or his mother has died.

Great Caesar's ghost, the man's mother has just died.

Maybe the man in the truck has just found out something about himself that is going to change him forever. He was at the doctor, and found out he's going to lose a foot because of his diabetes, or he has an unspeakable disease from a one-night-stand, or he just found out he's got cancer.

Holy Hell, he's going to die.

Maybe the man in the truck just got great news, and he's rushing to the airport to pick up his son who got back from a tour of duty, or his daughter just told him over the phone that she's going to get married, or maybe she's already married, and she's been pregnant and ready to burst and now she's going to have the baby and he's got her in the passenger seat but she's laying down and he's got to get her to the HOSPITAL RIGHT NOW!!

LEAPING LIZARDS!! HE'S GOT A WOMAN IN LABOUR RIGHT THERE IN THE TRUCK, AND YOUR SELFISH TERCEL IS BLOCKING THE ENTIRE ROAD, KELLY!!

Given all these possibilities, Kelly knew what to do in these situations.

He flipped the man off and gave him a very icy stare as he sped by.

That will teach him.