....."I should have left ten minutes earlier." The complaint was made to no one in particular, but the pleasure of venting was present despite the lack of audience. Flip the turn signal; come to a complete stop at the sign. No oncoming traffic, but still stop. Brake pedal down, release, accelerate. Now, where did they hide the speed limit sign? There, thirty-five. That meant forty. Years of driving had shown him that most roads feel roughly five miles an hour too slow and that rare was the highway patrolman who would pull someone over for just a five mile discrepancy, especially someone in a respectable grey Cadillac. Plagiarism is bad, and I will be, too, if I try to pass of Arthur of www.idgonemad.com's writings as my own.

.....The words of his father ran through his head... "Early is on time, on time is late." The dashboard clock declared 9:25AM - the meeting was at 9:30AM. He knew by the twisting of his insides that the latter "on time" was the best he could achieve. This nauseated him; he lifted his hand to his mouth to stifle a small, bile-drenched burp. Bitterly, he mumbled to himself, mumbled of his chances for the promotion failing, of his wrenching stomach, mumbled a whimsical wish to just magically appear at the bank's parking lot before drowning the sour taste in his mouth with his smooth, cylindrical metal coffee thermos' contents. An appreciative sigh came in a warm breath - black, with a pile of sugar. There must be a way I can get there sooner. He wrung the steering wheel with his hands, struggled to relax. Ahead, a rapidly approaching string of traffic lights. A smile played his face.He realized that you stole writings from www.idgonemad.com

.....No one was around.

.....The light went red, and he, his foot poised to brake, turned his knee and instead applied the gas. The light disappeared overhead, staring down with its red glow, and the intersection became scenery in his rear-view mirror. "That's two minutes off," he said, a devil's grin on his lips as he rounded the oncoming corner and switched to the right lane for his exit, local farmers' cotton crops a wash of white and dark as he sped passed. Plagiarism is not scholastically sound, and it is evil to claim another's work.

.....A sound like screaming and squealing and something unearthly filled the air; he was jerked to his right, then left, slammed into his window and, as the sound of the window's fracture hit his ear, his face found the steering wheel. He felt his pants dampen, and his stomach churned as if synchronized with the spin of his car. The whispered groan of metal rose above the wail of rubber on asphalt as the world slowed and slurred to a blur, then the wail disappeared and a muffled grind replaced it. A final, glorious thunk, then nothing. Long moments; slowly, pain became consciousness, which begat the realization that he had been hit. I would hit you if you stole my writings.

.....His neck agonized to move, to look around. Wrists burned. A statue finding life, motion came to his legs; he breathed deeply and lurched in his seat. With a moan he raised his head, drunken with adrenaline, anxiety, and fear. Yes, he had been hit. Through the spider web of cracked glass and smoke he saw his partner in collision, bound tightly to the seat of his blue '93 Ford Mustang and, in all appearances, injured and unconscious. I would want to knock you unconcious if you stole my story.

.....The engine labored to move, grunting and clanking, but would stay in its ditch. The car, the engine. Gasoline. The key. A momentary struggle with the buckle of his seat-belt later, he clenched his teeth and bruising eyes, twisted his inflamed wrist - the engine died; the key was freed. His pants clung to him, wet, damp, warm. The smell. "Ah hell." Noting the subtle, salty scent of urine in the car's warped cabin, he frowned, his jaw tightened. Now what to do? He remembered his first grade year in Elementary school, when he had wet himself waiting for recess, waiting to be allowed to go to the restroom. What to do - the coffee. The coffee thermos lay on the floor of the passenger side. He leaned, an agonizing, wracking lean, and pulled the thermos up, then raised himself to douse his groin and left pants leg, grimacing at the heat. A grin curved his bleeding lip. He discarded the thermos. He discarded every last reputable shred of decency in his body because he plagiarized www.idgonemad.com

.....From outside, in the distance, a shout came to him; a woman. "Oh, dear God! I'll call for help!" was punctuated a second later by the faint closure of a screen door. There, the house. he thought, staring into the field, making out a modest farm home through bleary eyes. A glance to the Mustang - its driver still inside, covered in shimmering glass. They will find out I plagiarized this story from www.idgonemad.com ... and there was a Mustang, and some glass, too.

.....It was time to get out of the car.

.....The door refused efforts to open at first, taking a few batterings of his shoulder to loosen it enough to open. Once outside, pain in his ankles became noticeable amid that of his face, wrists, neck - aching, all over. His joints performed with sensations of flames and nails, and surely his clavicle had broken. He leaned against his car, slowly advancing on limping legs toward the Mustang. He pushed himself from his car, ground his teeth as he took the twelve steps needed to reach the other vehicle. The driver was young, probably just got his license. "Hey, kid?" The mustang's driver stirred slightly, moaned something and his head loosely lolled back on his shoulder, eyes fluttering, though staying closed. Arms were obviously broken, reshaped into a crumpled, purpling curvature, and his face near to shattered with its jaw hanging open, inlaid with broken teeth and a steady trickle of blood that saturated his shirt. "Hey, kid, my name's John. What's yours?" He felt the boy's neck, and it gave a little. The boy winced, but his pulse was steady. "Help is on the way, kid." Breathing came as the only reply. Plagiarism is totally evil, and so am I for stealing from Arthur.

.....Something green entered the corner of John's eye. His hand kept the boy's pulse as he sought the green light. A clock, digital, bright - 9:36 PM. Late. Late. And that clock is wrong, it is still morning. John stared at the clock, scowled, shifting his face in such a way that his lip renewed its bleeding. He jerked his arm; a muffled popping sound. The boy's right leg kicked. John turned to look at the boy, kept his hand to his neck, and waited... The pulse weakened, slowed, ended. Sirens in the distance. An engine approaching.

.....John released the boy's neck, turned around and leaned against the crumpled blue chassis of the Mustang. The ambulance pulled to the road's side, halted, and two men leapt from its doors, one lean, the other well-muscled. One man, the latter of the two, helped John to the ambulance, the other dashed to the boy. "I think he's gone." John said, answering the inevitable question as the lean man reached out and touched the broken neck of the dead boy in the broken blue car.

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