Gerome blared
his horn as the guy cut him off. He sped up and drove so he was side-by-side
with the jerk on the road.
"What's
wrong with you, jackass?" he shouted. The other driver held up his middle
finger. Gerome responded with the same gesture. Suddenly the man in the truck
sped up. Gerome wanted to floor his pedal, but decided it wasn't worth it. He
kept driving, forgot about the truck after a few minutes, then felt like
somebody was looking at him. He glanced to his left and saw the truck beside
him, keeping the same speed as his own vehicle. The driver stared at him. Not
smiling, not frowning, not angry — just staring. He rapidly sped up again,
swerved in front of Gerome, and slammed on his brakes. Before Gerome could
respond, he felt the impact of the crash, then the pressure of the airbag
against his face. It was late at night, and there weren't too many drivers on the
road. Gerome knew some of his bones had broken. He felt himself drift in and
out of consciousness as somebody dragged him from his vehicle. The impact of
the hard truck bed against his cracked shoulder blade made him scream in pain
when he landed onto it, tossed into the back of the truck like a rag doll.
It was dark
and the street lights overhead were gone. They were someplace else, someplace
away from public eye. The man lifted Gerome from the truck bed.
"Why are
you doing this?" asked Gerome, still in so much pain he couldn't hardly
move. He hoped this man was taking him to the hospital, but he had no idea at
this point. The man did not say a word. He held Gerome out and dropped him.
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