June 16, 2000

The guy in front of me is driving a big, black, three-quarter-ton truck.  He's had his blinker on for the past five or six miles, but hasn't made a move into the empty lane next to him for any of that time.  As I get closer, I notice that he's also got half a dozen rods of rebar in the bed, none marked with a red flag, the long metal spikes dangling over the gate into four feet of empty space behind him -- right where a rear-ending driver's face would be.  He's swerving slightly as I pull past, because his head is tilted back while he puts in eye drops.

So of course I push the big red button on the dashboard and pull on my welder's goggles.  The trunk folds open and the hairs on my arm stand on end as the pulse laser starts to prime.  There's a blinding flash of light, a sharp crack of rended air and the big, black, three-quarter-ton truck, its driver and his eyedrops are reduced to the faint smell of ozone and a few swirling whisps of smoke.

Or at least that's what would happen if the world were the way it should be.

 



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