“Where are we Joline?” James asked his wife. Joline rolled her eyes.
“Look, James. Just because you drive most of the time when we’re in the car together, doesn’t mean I’m not a skilled driver.” James appeared skeptical.
“Well, we’ve been stuck in traffic a long time. Maybe we should find a better route?” Joline cast James a withering look.
“It’s Portland and it’s rush hour traffic. I’m following the route the GPS is telling me to take.” James sighed. He was about to say something when their car was rammed from behind.
“Are you kidding me?” James complained. “This is a Mercedes.” He looked behind him to see a white pick-up truck backing up.
“What’s wrong with the truck driver. Why is doing that to us?” Joline asked, gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles.
The truck rammed the Mercedes again. James and Joline’s car grew perilously closer to the edge of the freeway. “Let me drive Joline. I’ll get us out of this honey,” James assured his wife.
They were changing seats when the truck crashed into them again. The Mercedes flipped and hurled down to a lower level of the freeway and burst into flame.
The driver of the truck sped off, dodging through traffic which had begun to move. As he drove by, he watched the Mercedes burn with boredom. Stupid tourists.
Thanks to Alistair Forbes for hosting SPF.
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