By Morgan Boyd
I’m driving over the hill in the fast lane in my beat-up blue pickup truck when this douchebag in a white BMW climbs up my ass. I retaliate by taking my foot off the accelerator without hitting the brake, and pace a Silver Prius in the slow lane. The Beemer swerves back and forth behind us, honking and flashing its bright lights. I glance through my rearview mirror and see the driver talking on his cellphone.
My pulse quickens. I’d prefer not to disturb the monster, but the metamorphosis begins. My palms sweat, my eyes go bloodshot, and the most unholy sounds emanate from deep within me. All rationale evaporates. Law and order become incomprehensible.