Easton Westerman got cut off in traffic. He was driving to the building that bore his name. His mind was already at work. He had companies to gut, lives to ruin. He chuckled to himself. That’s how everyone else saw him. What was the point in explaining that he was in fact soft-hearted as a dove? He was piloting his sleek new German sedan around the corner, Sparrow Avenue onto Jenkins Street, when suddenly a Jeep shot out of an alley and T-boned him. Westerman flashed from his car. “You lousy so-and-so,” he said. From the Jeep emerged a mountain of a man. “I hate that car,” the mountain said. “And I hate any man who drives it. Do you know what those people did? My grandmother had to flee for her life or else the camps. My poor little grandma.” The man was foaming at the mouth and crying both. Flecks and drops punctuated the sentence of his face. The giant kicked the side of the sedan tearfully. Something in the toe of his boot dented the side panel. Westerman had been ready to retreat but now he went straight for the man’s neck. Westerman had a poor little grandma too, and he could hear her voice urging him to shellac the prick.
©2020 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas
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