I turn onto I-57 from the Lincoln Highway heading south towards Kankakee. It is dusk, I have hours to go. I settle into that driving groove, the miles flying past my tires in an endless line. Road music soothes me on my iPod. Lots of guitar solos, classic 70's rock. I lock the cruise control at a slick 75 mph.
The red Nissan was driving in the left hand lane for no apparent reason. I pass on the right, noticing the tag on the back -- Michigan plates emblazoned 'DOBY'. Why do assholes from Michigan insist on driving in the left lane all the time I wonder. This is not the first time I noticed this. Soon DOBY was a spec in my mirror. The road cut its straight path among the farms and fields of Illinois. A car flies up my rear passing me. It is my buddy DOBY. He finally moves into the right lane in front of me. He promptly slows down to about 70. Urgh, I hit my turn signal and pass him again, muttering to myself about jerks in Nissans and their inability to use cruise control.
Ten minutes later guess who passes me again? Yep, jerkoff DOBY. I am getting a little sick of this. Is he playing some kind of game with me? The road was nearly deserted as the sun paints the sky in purples and orange. The clouds glitter with gold and I feel for the Colt 45 ACP under the armrest. The sky overhead was already a deep indigo as night drew near. Ten miles later guess who was clogging the right lane, running right at the speed limit? I passeed him again. Fifteen minutes later DOBY zooms by on the left, I now am so sick of that red Nissan.
Ten miles down the road I come upon a car swerving off the road on the right. It is my pal DOBY correcting when he hit the rumble strip. This guy is a menace. I think for a minute about pulling out the handgun and just shooting him. I smile, just for an instant, at the thought. I know I could never hit him with the handgun at 75 mph. The idea was crazy, I would end up in prison, the cellmate of a huge inmate named Bubba. I dismiss the thought. I impulsively reach over the armrest to backseat floor. The Browning model eleven 16 gauge would do the trick. I tapped the brakes and fell in behind DOBY and his strawberry red Nissan. I flick the safety and rolled down the passenger window. I looked around, no cars in sight. I pulled into the left lane accelerating slightly. The fucker will not look at me. I pulled even, then slightly forward. The gun was heavy in my hand as I pulled the trigger. Holy shit, what have I done? The kick nearly broke my wrist. Goddamn that hurt. The Nissan swerved for a moment than lurched to the right flipping in the roadside ditch. I turned up the radio and chuckled.
I pulled into a gas station to take a leak. I entered the restroom to find the one urinal was occupied. The stall was empty, but I wanted to use the urinal. I don't know what came over me, I stepped up and drove the asshole's head straight into the wall as hard as I could. I grabbed his hair and smashed his face about 6 times into the pipes above the porcelain. His blood looked pink on the white wall as he slumped to the ground. I pulled open my zipper and pissed all over him. It felt good. I did not take his wallet or anything. My wrist now hurt like a bastard.
I pulled back onto the highway, taking the exit onto I-74 heading East. Zepplin pounded through the speakers -- Kashmir. As I rounded a bend, trees in the median, there was a car driving just at the speed limit in the left lane, no other vehicles but ours on the highway. He had Michigan plates...