Road Rage

The car reversed out of the driveway without warning. He swerved and narrowly avoided it. He had just enough time to apply his entire bodyweight to the horn and show the inconsiderate motorist his middle finger as he manoeuvred.

He had just about calmed down by the time he stopped at a set of traffic lights a little further up the street.

The lights changed to green and a little old lady stepped on to the crossing, making everybody wait. He seethed, but took no action.

Right at the moment he was setting off, a cyclist flashed past and cut in front of him. This was too much and he opened his window.

“Hey, dickhead,” he yelled.

The cyclist showed him the finger.

Right! He squealed away from the lights and drove straight into the lycra-clad moron, flattening his cycle and possibly the man too. He didn’t hang around to see what had happened.

Passers by were making big, shocked Os with their mouths and several were frantically taking out mobile phones, either to call the police or to take accident scene selfies.

He sped away, his heart beating like an amphetamine-addled percussionist.

He needed to get away.

He reached the motorway and sat in the outside lane, his foot pressed against the floor.

“Out of my way!” he yelled at nobody in particular as multiple vehicles swerved to avoid him.

His heart was beating faster and faster, like a broken metronome.

He glanced down and saw he was doing 150mph. Everything alongside him was a blur of colour.

His chest shook as his heart continued to accelerate.

There were a series of blue lights in his rear view mirror.

The chase became futile as his chest exploded, making the car resemble a macabre kind of blender.