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Fueled by the recent spate of car bombings, Kemar pressed down on his little Hondaís accelerator with relish. He wouldnít admit it, but the large death tolls reported nightly over the radio somehow pleased him. He liked hearing about that bloody danger out there, the violence, the crisis atmosphere. He toyed with the idea, imagining himself in Iraq, in a public explosion type situation:
-Would he think to pick up the injured child, or just keep running?
-Would he make a really embarrassing noise in front of an attractive colleague?
-If confronted by a video journalist and pressed for his account, would he seem shocked on the news Ė or worse yet, effeminate?
Rush hour on the L.I.E. was slow and comfortable. He felt insulated by his automotive compartment. The other cars around him were a further buffer between him and the darkness of Nassau County. In his Civic, he didnít have to worry. Bad news helped him appreciate how good he had it.
Kemarís foot eased down on the brake pedal. Ahead, the soft, red break-lights were warm and cozy. Behind him, the sun was setting. Haaaa. The United States. Also behind him was a General Motors SUV, growing in his rearview mirror. It plowed into his Japanese export, whipping his head back, bouncing it off the steering wheel. His nose faucetted blood, the car jolted to a stop. He got out and stood, one hand cupping his blood, one hand holding his license. The rear of his Civic was crunched and deformed. People driving by couldnít help but stare at his numbed, shocked expression, putting themselves in his shoes momentarily and feeling pleased that it hadnít happened to them.
Date Written: November 22, 2003
Author: Benny Maniacs
Average Vote: 3.4