Chapter 7 - Red the Jailer

A new cop came to the holding cell. It wasn’t Junior. The old redneck had the hugest wad of chew in his mouth I had ever seen. He was carrying around a Styrofoam coffee cup that I'll bet was used to capture his residue spit. I pity the guy that confuses his coffee cup with Red's. He had a big gut as well from eating too much barbeque and washing it down with Buds, the beer of choice around these parts, along with Ford F-150's. It was an interesting blend of people in the North Florida beach area, native rednecks, who replaced the Seminoles hundreds of years ago and the Yuppies. I am a member of the later. There was a common disdain between the two groups and being locked up with the Minorcan at the watch was a bit un-nerving.

Minorcans were locals whose history could be traced back to the Spanish settlers. They were a sort of Royalty around these parts. Some were land rich because of the squatted land their families owned. Unfortunately they had to sell off to developers in order to pay the rising real estate taxes. Those properties quickly got developed into either family or retirement communities. Now those communities are overvalued and sales have come to an abrupt halt.

Anyway here I was with Red; Junior must have been back out on patrol, and the Criminal Investigations Unit would have taken over the case. I wanted desperately to call Jerry back, but I just had the one call as far as I was aware. I was surprised that after a weekend, there was only one drunk locked up with me. I couldn't decide whether to pace or sit. There was nothing to read; maybe I would sleep until Jerry got there – not a chance. If he had any compassion, he would bring a Starbucks and Scone; I dare not ask Red for java or breakfast.

"Bubba, your mouthpiece is here," Red informed me. These 'ol boys call everyone Bubba. "He's in the meeting room, let's go"

I remained silent. I stood up and followed through the opened cell door. He didn't put cuffs on me, which was a surprise. I followed down the hall to the meeting room. Red pressed his thumb to the bio reader, opened the door and I saw Jerry sitting at the table. He immediately stood. "Randall!" He exclaimed, "how are you?"

I looked to Red; I was not going to speak with him there. I glanced at the table to see a white legal pad -- no Starbucks. The room was light green painted cinder block; I guess some decorator decided cells are yellow, meeting rooms are green. The table was a Steelcase putty color with laminate wood top, steel chairs to match. I took a seat which was cold and hard and sat silently. Red instructed Jerry to push a button near the door when he was ready to leave.

After Red left, Jerry and I stood and shook hands. He reached over the table to give me a hug in that awkward guy kind of way.

"No breakfast?" I asked.
"They wouldn't have let me give it to you, sorry," he said earnestly. "They treating you okay?"
"I'm hungry,"
"They haven't fed you?"
"No, but no big deal, can you get me out by lunch?"
"Doubtful. You have to get questioned first, and then arraigned. It’ll be late today, if not tomorrow. What happened?" asked Jerry, waiting to hear the story as my attorney and a friend; but mostly out of sheer curiosity in a rubber-necker sort of way. My comment that I was accused of murder and rape certainly would pique one's curiosity, especially for a corporate lawyer who mostly deals with contracts and labor issues.

"You call Pete?"
"Yeah. I was surprised that he was able to come himself; lucky for you he successfully litigated for a client whose trial ended Friday. He's a bit hung-over but on his fractional owned jet on his way to St. Augustine airport. I’ll pick him up at noon."

"The first good thing to happen today, he wasted no time in getting here," I said. My spirits were rising, I could feel the funk leave, but the financial meter was already running, two - five hundred dollars an hour lawyers and a fractional jet, I wondered what cost would hit my bill. No doubt I would have to exercise my undervalued options from the company to pay the legal tab. I had been keeping that cookie jar for a rainy day and it was pouring today.

"Pete wanted to get here as soon as possible, because he says that the first interrogation is the most important. I’ll put off the investigators until after Pete gets here. So what happened?" he asked a second time. His curiosity could wait no longer.

I began to recite a story that would be repeated a hundred times in the coming hours, days, weeks, and months. I hoped it wouldn’t spill over to years, but the story will follow me to the end of days. "Wait," said Jerry as he placed a recorder on the table. "Do you mind?" He asked.

I nodded no, and then began again. Jerry listened and made continual eye contact as I tended to occasionally look away while accessing what I believed to be the facts logged into the gray matter database in my skull, which by the way was pounding once again. He didn’t ask a single question during my recital. I assume he didn’t want to break my train of thought. He would however occasionally break eye contact in order to jot a question on his pad. But he did not interrupt as the Olympus voice capture recorder ran, posting my account to some sort of electronic memory.

"....and that's about it I said when I finished.

Jerry's self imposed silence was broken with the profound comment of "Holy shit!"
"Exactly," I responded. "So where do you think we stand?"
"I think we need to find out what her motives were. That is what I think Pete will say. Did you know her well?"
"About as well as any woman I guess. I try not to get close to the women I sleep with; you know that."
"You aren't exactly the commitment kind of guy."
"Right now I wish I had been and never slept with anyone like Rachel."
"For once I’m not jealous of your lifestyle Randy."
"Me either," I agreed.
"Anything else?" asked Jerry as he gathered his things.
"I’m pretty hungry, can you see if Red can get me some lunch?"
"Who's Red?"
"The cop who brought me in here.”
"His name's Red?"
"I don't know his fuckin' name, that's just what I call him in my head. Sir is what I call him to his face."

I could feel the frustrated anger returning. I did nothing wrong! This day is the most fucked up one in my life. I held no concern for Rachel killing herself and blaming me, she chose that end. But I was pissed about the baggage she left me with. If I didn't change my disposition I would wind up someone’s bitch at Raiford. I was sure of it.

Jerry sensed my frustration. He reached over the table as he stood and touched my shoulder. "It'll be okay. You need to settle down,” he consoled.
"I know."
He walked to the door and pushed the button. "I gotta go get Pete," he said.

I rose and approached Jerry, right hand extended. He took it and as we shook I said," thanks for coming old friend."
He smiled slightly, “it will be okay, I gotta go.”
"Remember lunch," I said as Red opened the door.
My stomach was growling so loud it could have spoken for itself.

Chapter 6 - Jerry my Lawyer

"Jerry?"
"Randall?" replied my corporate attorney.
"Yeah."
"Caller ID says you are calling from Flagler County Sheriff's office.”
"That's right."
"Get a speeding ticket on A1A?"
"Not exactly. This morning has been a nightmare. I wish I was still in bed dreaming, but I'm not. They think I raped and killed someone."
"Did you?" He asked.
"No, I didn't," I replied sternly.
"You know I just do corporate law."
"Of course I know that, but I don't know any criminal lawyers. Can you help me out?"
"Yes, Pete Cavanaugh is the best I know, but he’s in Miami. I don't know if he has room in his schedule. Criminal cases take up large blocks. I can check with him."
"I'd appreciate that," I said, grateful that he took my call. I had called Jerry on his cell, otherwise we would have played phone tag for hours, and I didn't think the Sheriff would take a message. I had no voice mail and I was totally lost without my Blackberry. I knew his cell by heart; it ended in 9999.

"Can you come down here and see what you can do until you reach Pete?"
"I'm ahead of you I am already headed out of my office and about to get on the elevator, see you in an hour and a half, traffic permitting."
"Thanks!" I said.
"You okay?"
"I'm keeping it together, but I'm not sure for how long."
"Your innocent, no worries...."

The line went dead; he must have gotten in the elevator. Jerry was your typical corporate attorney. These guys were even more boring than accountants – myself excluded of course. They were not the litigators, but the ones who reviewed contracts day after day. They could spend hours word smithing an agreement, or stock option plan, or the like. I went nuts trying to read through those types of documents. I couldn’t imagine doing it all day long.

Jerry was married with kids as you can imagine, and lived the American dream – golden retriever included. He is about five foot ten, fit, has sandy blonde hair, and lives on the fifth tee at a moderately priced gated community in Jacksonville. Outside of corporate law, the Lord Jesus (he never let's you forget his devotion), and his family – golf was his passion and he played at least thirty six holes on the weekend. Either he got two full rounds in on one day – or split the mission between two. Jerry was a scratch golfer, but not the kind that would break a club if he missed a shot. He is very methodical, and emotions would break his concentration.

That's how he practiced law – methodically with undivided concentration. Jerry was a lone ranger, no partners, no secretary – just himself in the Modis building overlooking the St. Johns River and the South Bank of Jacksonville. There aren't many public companies in Northeast Florida, and he is the go to guy in town. He grew up in Jacksonville, went to the University of Florida, which made him an obnoxious Gator, and received his law degree from the same.

If I were a betting man I would say Jerry will arrive wearing khaki’s, white button down shirt, blue and orange stripped tie, a Tommy H. navy blue blazer, and his trademark oxblood Bass Weejuns on his feet. I would definitely win that bet – the only variable would be the tie. He was so predictable. Heck, I was so predictable – that is what kept my sanity, always knowing what came next in a series of carefully orchestrated moves. Then came Rachel and fucked it all up – I am having a hard time feeling any remorse for her untimely departure.

Chapter 5 - Jail

We pulled into the parking lot of the new municipal building. Clearly this was not to be an Andy of Mayberry episode. I didn't know if that was a good thing or a bad one yet.

Junior opened my door and led me up the stairs. Once inside the tan stucco building we passed the dispatch desk. "I'll process him," said Junior to the dispatcher. He had become somewhat possessive of me and led me to the lockdown area. Junior placed his thumb in the bio pad and a solid door slid open - no bars here, this was like maximum security. What crimes did they have here I wondered. Domestic spats, bad checks, bar room brawls. You would think from the lockdown entry Flagler County was filled with hard core felons. Maybe it was just that I had never been to a place like this and was unaware. I felt a million miles from Jacksonville, and even further from my office and life. I feared I would never see the beach or my life again.

Junior led me to a sterile room, unlocked the bracelets and had me empty my pockets into a plastic bucket like the ones used at airport security. Out came my Blackberry, and cell phone. Junior added my wallet that he confiscated at the crime scene. My keys were left back at the car when I hastily left to chew out Rachel. Bad move, I realized. As you go through life you always ponder your worst moment to date. Your biggest mistake. That was it. The pinnacle of fuck ups to date. "Watch too," he instructed. I complied and placed the Rolex in the bin. Junior picked up the electronics and turned them off. It was if the life as I knew it had been turned off.

After the x-ray, Junior walked me to the fingerprint station, where he placed each finger of each hand onto a bio reader, which scanned them and saved them to the local as well as master Homeland Security database. They would be instantly checked by artificial intelligence to see if there were any outstanding warrants. I knew there wouldn’t be.

Then he led me to the camera and took the standard portrait and profile mug shots. I wondered if they would rate with the Mel Gibson shots. Rather than the celebrity websites mine would be found on all financial websites. There would be a shot of a thirty-something medium build man, short brown conservative haircut, with the look of shock in his bloodshot chocolate brown eyes.

Maybe I would rate the Motley Fool. I could be sure our stock price would tank by Friday. As if things weren’t bad enough, our stock was at ten percent of where it traded at IPO. The early investors took a bath if they held more than a year. The market of course was the electronic Vegas for big pocket institutional and small investors alike.

The flash was blinding. Then Junior walked me to the commode. "Pee in this cup," he said as he stood there watching.

"You mind?" I asked.
"Policy," he replied.
"Why?"
"Have to make sure it's your pee."
"Who else’s would it be?" I replied with a hint of hostility.
"Policy," he repeated. He had no more interest in watching than I had being watched. I wanted to be empathetic of his position, but just couldn't get there.

I peed in the cup.

He then led me to the holding cell. He placed his thumb on the bio reader and the cell door opened. There were some stiff metal benches, enough to hold about twenty, but this morning it was just me and a wreaking drunk who was laying down on one of the four benches. The walls were yellow painted cinder block. I stepped in. "Don't I get a call?"

"It's seven fifteen, ya'll have ta' wait till nine."

The door closed. I couldn't believe only two and a half hours ago Rachel was riding my tail on the Coastal Highway.

Chapter 4 - The Arrest

After he merandized me, Junior started to ask questions. Obviously benign ones I would answer in the spirit of cooperation, ones that can indict me would be spun or deferred. My career as a CFO taught me to answer questions from investors, auditors, the SEC, and the IRS without impeaching myself.

“May I see your wallet sir?”
“Front right pocket,” I answered. I use a business card holder as a wallet. Since I only carry plastic it takes up much less room. I was curious how awkward this would be for Junior since he had to touch an area that most men would not venture on another. Since he cuffed me he had no choice. I was surprised when he went for it without hesitation. I was glad my khakis were loose so he didn’t have to fish much.

“Mr. Scott?” asked Junior from reading it off my Florida license.
“Yes.”
"The Porsche yours?"
"Yeah."
"Nice, or at least was, you must have broken the frame."
This was commentary, not a question so I remained silent. I could not see the senior officer, who was attending to Rachel.
"You know your victim?"

He used the term victim. If I answered yes or no, I will admit she was my victim. There was just one answer to that question, "I need to call my lawyer. I respectfully will not answer any questions."

I learned early in my life not to treat people disrespectfully, and this was certainly no time to start. I was sure this would be the kid's first homicide and any kind of incriminating answer from me could end my life as I knew it. It was clear that I would be the number one suspect. As I looked up at the headlights, I realized that it appears that I rammed the Lexus. My finger prints are on the gun, and my DNA in her mouth. Clearly they will have the case solved in twenty four hours. I crashed into her to make her stop. Undoubtedly they will know the gun was hers - registered or not. She took it out to defend herself; I wrestled it away, and led her to the beach. I forced my penis into her mouth, and after I climaxed I replaced my shaft with the gun shaft and blew off the back of her head. Case closed. If they can prove premeditation I would have a choice of lethal injection or the chair they used to fry Bundy. I was fucked.

"You know the girl?"
I remained silent.
“We got a call from someone heading southbound and saw the cars. We were checking them out, when bam! We heard the shot."
I remained silent.
"Not talking?"
"Not without my lawyer."
Just then Senior came up and whispered in Junior's ear. I also saw more blue lights and two more uniforms heading down the dune. The still ocean began to crescendo in both form and audibility. I could see the sky start to lighten although the sun had not pierced the horizon yet. It was the predawn light that I knew well from my morning routine. I would have been close to my office in Jacksonville by now.

The two cops originally on the scene escorted me up to the highway. Two tow trucks were on the scene, and the backup officers stood watch over Rachel. I couldn't help but wonder if Senior closed her lids, covering those beautiful green eyes that would haunt me forever. Nobody will ever know what I knew happened. My pals may believe me out of loyalty, but they will always wonder if I just lost it and let the demons take me over to become another casualty of the dark side of humanity.

Junior opened the back door, put his palm on my head and pushed me down into the back seat, my hands cuffed behind me. I felt the binding pinch as my butt found the slick surface of the vinyl seat.

We headed south, so I suspected it was the Flagler County Sherriff that I would visit with. I didn’t take notice of the logo on the police cruiser. But if it was St. Johns we would head north. Flagler County was the lowest population in Northeast Florida. I had visions of a Mayberry station with the sheriff’s desk next to the sole jail cell, separated only by iron bars. Wild fires were the only newsworthy events here. I'll bet this makes the paper in Jacksonville and Daytona. It will then get picked up by the AP and the Wall Street Journal will run it by Tuesday. I had never made the Journal. The company I took public would only get the modest web based news releases. This wasn’t how I envisioned the prime years in my forties to gain notoriety.

As we cruised in silence, I began to wonder what got Rach motivated to frame me for her suicide. It was clear that she wanted to die. Furthermore she wanted me to be charged with her death, but why. She obviously made the early morning trip an hour south of Jacksonville to chase me. She must have been parked in the condo lot and waited for me. Maybe she partied in Daytona Sunday, never went to bed, did some ecstasy, and just lost it. There were so many questions, and the one that held the answers was gone – her corpse lying on its back at the beach.

Chapter 3 - Junior the Rookie

There she laid. Rachel Johnston if I recall. Apparently she was married now and she may have changed her last name. Maybe she kept her maiden name, maybe not. Her head, the part still attached to her neck was close to the incoming tide. I stood over her watching the peace of the stillness. Her eyes were still opened but now fixed on the heavens not mine. The water seemed to be rising fast, her hair and bloody remains of her inner head mixing with the sand and salt water. I realized that I never pulled up my pants. The gun was still in my hands, I dropped it to the beach, bent down and pulled up my boxers, then my khakis, and completed the act by fastening the belt buckle.

"Put your hands above your head," I heard him yell in a North Florida accent. This part of the state was so close to Georgia, the natives actually sounded more like deep southerners than the mixed international/northern accents of South Florida. I quickly turned to see the blue flashing lights up near the car accident. The lights illuminating against the navy blue uniform.

"Fuck," I whispered inaudible to anyone but myself. I quickly processed what was about to happen. I was living an episode of CSI Miami.

"Get them up NOW!" he ordered. I was getting tired of taking orders this morning, and he was again the one with the gun. He must have been fifty yards away, but I was sure he could hit me from that distance. I acquiesced and my hands reached up towards the early morning sky. A second officer appeared and they both walked down the dune in my direction, their guns drawn and pointed at me in stereo. My heart was pounding. I started to wish Rachel shot me rather than herself. As they neared, they became aware of Rachel's stillness.

The younger officer whipped me around and cuffed me while the seasoned cop bent down to Rachel and placed his index and middle finger to sense a pulse on her neck. He was not yet aware of the missing rear hemisphere of her scull.

Did they hear the shot? They must have, that's why I had been cuffed. I wondered if they saw what happenned. Did they see Rachel with the gun on me as I was raped? Did they see her put the gun in my hand? Or did they just hear the shot. Clearly they were on the scene because of the two abandoned cars, but that would not have been cause to bind my wrists so quickly. I can only assume that at minimum, they heard the shot, saw Rach laying on the beach and me standing over her. At some point I will know what they heard and saw which will set the tone for the breadth of my defense.

I was facing toward the road. The blue police lights were flickering in the dark morning, the sun yet to break the horizon. I could see the Porsche and Lexus lights beaming to nowhere unparticular northbound. How much time had passed I wondered. It seemed like hours, but could not be more than a half hour, maybe fifteen minutes at best. My watch was inaccessible since my left hand was attached to my right, this time restrained by cuffs rather than Rach's firm grip.

"What time is it?" I asked the junior cop.
"What do ya'll care, ya'll ain't goin' ta' work today," he said in a near Georgia drawl.

Work had not even crossed my mind.

"Bit a' road rage Bubba?" He asked, but sounded like more of an observation.
"What?" I replied in an almost angry tone.
"Oh yeah, almost forgot," he said, then continued," you have the right to remain silent, you have....."

Chapter 2 - Rachel the Rapist

As I approached the car I couldn’t detect movement from inside. The front door flung open just as I passed the rear driver side door. In one fluid motion she stepped out of the vehicle with a police issue .38 caliber pointed directly at my face. I knew this woman, but from where. I use the term woman loosely; she was a chick from my past. I was sure of it. One of the dozens I had as a single guy. Many chicks born in the sixties didn't want marriage or a guy to count on for anything, but they wanted a fuck once in a while. She was typical. Bleached blonde, the short mini-skirt her seduction, and the best tits money could buy her weapon in the world of high tech business.

"Rachel?" I guessed luckily.
"Randall," she replied matter of factly.
"What the fuck are you doing?"
"What does it look like I'm doing?"
"I have no freakin' idea, why don't you tell me?" I replied puzzled. I hadn't seen Rach in four years.
"Shut up," she replied. "I always hated the way you whined. You’re a fuckin' wimp. I should have known better than to have a bean counter as a fuck buddy. Over there!" she commanded, pointing the gun towards the beach.

I walked around her door and in front of the Lexus. I soon felt the barrel in the spine of my back. I always knew Rach was a control freak. She was really into tying me to the bed post with pillow cases. I never cared for that and eventually we stopped screwing around.

She was steering me off the road and down the steep sand dune to the beach. The moon finally broke through the clouds. It illuminated the ocean, which happened to be calm, in fact the air was still and stale on this hot morning in July. When we could no longer see the lights from the abandoned cars above on the highway she said "stop here and turn around."
I faced her and she the sea. She placed the tip of the gun against my forehead and said, “drop your pants Randy."

I unfastened my belt and unzipped the hundred dollar jeans du jour. They fell to the sand, my eyes never leaving hers. This had to be the most outrageous booty call of my life. I wasn't sure whether to be excited or pissed. I took excited; there was plenty of time to be pissed. At one point I felt like I was being raped, but only 15 year old boys get raped, either by a member of the clergy, a teacher, or that weird uncle. Men don't get raped, but this did not feel consensual.

"The boxers too," she demanded. I dropped my boxers aware of the gun pointed at my forehead the entire time. I was not the least bit excited as she dropped to her knees in one well rehearsed motion, the .38 following her down and rested on my abdomen. Her mouth took my limp manhood and she began to work hard at it with the gun ever present, pressed against me.

I wondered if I got aroused at all, would this still be rape. Or does the mere uncontrolled stiffened reaction to her persistent lips constitute consent to the act. So be it, because the reflex took over. I did not enjoy it if that was any consolation. My mind wandered away, wondering if she would shoot me when I was done. Should I delay the release or submit. I tried to resist, but she tried harder, the competitive bitch that she was. My early morning delivery moved directly down her throat before I could stop it. Here it was the climax, would I pay with a bullet to my gut?

She stood, moving the gun up under my chin. She looked into my eyes and stared through my soul. I was not sure how long she would stare before she pulled the trigger to blow off the top of my head. What happened next was totally unexpected. She removed the gun from under my chin, allowing my volatile thought that I was now out of danger to take over. A sense of relief overcame me. I was safe. I was raped and my car damaged -- true. But I realized I would live to tell. Maybe the police, maybe my attorney, or both. But that would come later. Right now my elation of life controlled my mind. I began to smile sheepishly, wondering if this was just a bad joke she thought she was pulling on me.

Rachel’s stare was maintained. I don’t think she blinked. Then came the bomb. She took my hand, placed the gun in it and said "shove it in my mouth like it’s your cock and pull the trigger."
"What?" I yelled.

Before I knew it her left hand cradled mine. Her fingers wrapped around mine which were clenching the gun. My body began to quiver. I noticed a previously missed detail when her hand was raised. She had a rock on her ring finger. Two, maybe three karats. This was getting even more bizarre.

"Pull the fuckin' trigger," she commanded.

My eyes returned to hers, her stare fixed. Her green eyes pools of determined desire. Like no other desire I had seen in anyone's eyes before. They were almost begging me to send her to the next world. This is how she wanted to go? Giving a blow job to a man? One who is not her husband? One who she had not seen in years? Then have him blow her head off with a gun? This was a bad dream. I kept waiting to wake up - but I didn’t.

I felt my right arm in motion, my left stricken with paralysis. My eyes stayed with hers as she pulled my hand with both of hers, the barrel penetrating her lips, and before I could protest, before my left hand could move to stop the insanity, her French manicured thumb slipped between my fingers and squeezed the trigger. Her hands immediately released my hand. My eyes did not leave hers as she took the express lane to whatever meets us after this life.

Her eyes remained opened and changed from desire to void. I had not noticed that the back of her scull flew off to the surf. The gore to be breakfast for the gulls if they got to it before the shallow tide immersed it to become chum for the pompano that were splashing along the shore. The juxtaposition of her beauty falling back against the sand, the remnants of her brain squishing out the sides like a Sloppy Joe from a bun was more than I could bear. "No," I howled, impotent as I felt from not stopping the madness. "Nooooo!"

Chapter 1 - Road Rage

It was the usual Monday morning drive along the Coastal Highway to work. The sun had not yet risen, but that didn't stop my head from pounding from too many beers on the beach the day before. My oceanfront condo was a great investment even with the real estate bust of 2005. I bought the seven figure place for mid six figures in the late nineties before the Florida boom.

I usually had the highway to myself at this hour but I noticed headlights in the rear view mirror of my Boxter. The top was down. The air was humid, but not yet hot. It was sort of a facial moisturizer as I drove daily to work at 4 a.m.


The headlights were getting brighter as the vehicle approached faster. It must have been doing over 100 miles per hour since my needle was pushing 95. I never went over 100. I usually set limits for myself. How far I could push without crossing that invisible line I set for most things I do. For the last five years I have been the CFO of Nextec, and believe me, those ethical limits have been pressed just like 100 mph line on the speedometer of my beloved Porsche.

That bastard put his brights on and I pushed the rear view mirror away to deflect the piercing light from the blue lights approaching. It must be a late model Lexus or Benz, some maniacal executive in a bigger rush than me trying to get to the office before 5:00. I heard the roar of the engine, clearly cranking 4000 rpm and doing 120 mph as it passed. It was a Lexus all right, I stayed at 95 and let him back in, as if I had any say in the matter. This jerk was clearly a control freak. I decided I would let his red tail lights disappear into the distance. They didn't. Just as abruptly as the headlights appeared so did his brake lights.


The black SC squealed to a complete stop not 500 yards away without fishtailing. As soon as my mind processed this surprised course of events in the dark along Flagler Beach, the unobstructed ocean to the right and rows of "c" class condos to the left, my right foot was pressing the brake pedal harder than ever before. With my hands holding the steering wheel tight I swerved to the left into what would be oncoming traffic when the rest of the world was awake, but a void in space at this insane hour of the day. The hour was somewhere between partiers crashing and sane people waking. Here I was with this asshole on the two lane highway. I passed him at about fifty and honked hard to alert him of my displeasure as I passed him.

I hit the accelerator as hard as the brake and felt my tires spin for the very first time. I squealed the tires as I broke my self imposed limit, I reached forward and re-adjusted the rear view mirror then started to alternate my eyes between the rear view and speedometer, and road ahead. The needle handily passed 100
and moved to 120, 130. The machine felt like it was at half the speed I read on the dash. The blue high beams of the Lexus started to grow in my rear view mirror. My headache was replaced with the sensation of adrenaline. The flee response never felt greater in my forty two years. I do not remember if it was fear or anger that overtook me next.

The Lexus finally caught me, not from the lack of agility of the Porsche, but the obvious experience of my competitor, or inexperience on my part. He caught up next to me and we road in unison northbound towards St. Augustine. The Lexus was in the southbound lane, no obstacle from oncoming traffic in sight. As I accelerated, so did the Lexus. 150, 160, then came the burst of speed from the Lexus and he passed me by about 100 yards, then pulled in front of me and slammed on his brakes, the red illumination bound to hide the impending bloodbath from the crash. There was no time to swerve this time and I ploughed dead into him. He must have released the brake and place the transmission into neutral because I pushed him 500 yards – both vehicles airbags deploying as we went. It seemed like an eternity passed before we came to a stop in the middle of the highway.

I realized the incident was over with somewhat of an under climactic finish to the rush that ended without carnage. The damage to the Boxter was the last thing on my mind. Revenge for the anguish was all I thought of as I opened the door and hurried to the car in front, prepared to engage in probably the most aggressive ass chewing I had ever released on another human being.