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Send to FriendThe most enraged of all the motorists stuck in this traffic jam was no doubt Leonard Smith, who sat in the driver's seat of his Plymouth, his hands tightly gripping against the steering wheel, his teeth gritted in an angry snarl. In the passenger seat sat an incredibly nervous Nate Bundy, who watched his friend like a hawk because he knew that Leonard wasn't just mildly annoyed or extremely frustrated like the rest of the motorists. Leonard was out for blood. Nate could tell just by looking at him.
"Ain't it always the way," Leonard muttered bitterly. "Some asshole doesn't know how to fuckin' drive, gets himself in a fuckin' accident, and we all have to suffer because of his stupidity!" He pounded his fists madly against the steering wheel, and the horn blatted noisily. "I hope the guy died in the accident, Nate, ya hear me? I seriously hope he's dead right now! I hope he was thrown through the windshield, smashed his head against the pavement, splattering his brains--or whatever he's got passin' for brains--all over the streets, and I hope they end up having to scrape his body off with a fuckin' spatula! You know why? Because he deserves it, that's why, for being so stupid!" He threw his head out the open driver's side window and shouted to the top of his lungs: "YOU HEAR ME, MISTER ACCIDENT MAN, YOU FUCKIN' IDIOT, I HOPE YER FUCKIN' DEAD!"
"How very compassionate of you to say that," Nate sighed. He hated seeing Leonard in such an irate state of mind, not just irritable and easily set off but downright dangerous to be around.
None of this would be a concern if Leonard had only taken his medication this morning. While medicated, Leonard was extremely slow to anger, always so mellow, almost a Buddhist about every situation. Had Leonard been on his medication, this traffic jam would have been little more than a slight inconvenience, a mild annoyance at most.
It was when he forgot to take his medication, or when errors had been made in the prescription or in the delivery of the prescription to his apartment (it had been the latter of the two this time), then that's when The Monster emerged, taking control of the man, like Mister Hyde to Doctor Jekyll. At times, in Leonard's case, it seemed as though Mister Hyde was a completely separate and independent entity altogether residing within the same physical form as Doctor Jekyll. But of course, Nate knew better than that. No matter how far gone he might be, there was always still a piece of the man left, a small fragment of the real Leonard Smith. Often times, it was a matter of being able to reach out to his humanity, which was often times very difficult to do. The medication had always done a superb job, never faltering, always keeping his temper and emotions in check. Without the pills, Leonard was a loose cannon, a ticking time bomb of mass destruction. In his present condition, the slightest spark would detonate a nuclear explosion, annihilating everything within a radius of several hundred miles, engulfing every inanimate object in the blazing, ever-expanding white flash of radiation.
Nate had entertained the notion several times of encouraging Leonard to sue the entire psychiatric ward for malpractice because of Doctor Morris's screw-up with the prescription. Why shouldn't Leonard sue Doctor Morris and the company he worked for? Already this was starting to ruin the man's life and he had only been deprived of the pills for three days. It would only get progressively worse from here, unless the prescription was delivered very promptly, which had been very doubtful at this point in time.
Leonard had nearly gotten himself fired today for having told his boss off upon being called to his employer's office this morning--Leonard had verbally ripped the boss to shit and he hadn't even been in trouble. But for telling off the boss, Leonard surely would have been terminated had Nate not come to his defense and explain the whole situation. As it was, Leonard had been written up for the whole episode and put on probation. Another outburst of any kind and he surely would be terminated regardless of whatever "excuses" his friend might come up with on his behalf.
Damn you, Doctor Morris, Nate cursed bitterly.
Leonard himself had been horrified bye actions. He despised what the disease made him do and the illness itself for making him do it. And he dreaded days such as this, when the medication became so far out of his reach. It was days like these that had cost Leonard his marriage with Karen two years ago. Karen no longer wanted to take the chance that Doctor Morris would make another error in the prescription, making it so Leonard couldn't get his pills on time. Nate had sympathized with his friend for his loss, but at the same time couldn't blame Karen for having wanted the divorce either.
It was only a few months ago (a previous screw-up on the part of Doctor Morris) that, after a heated argument, Leonard, in a fit of rage, nearly murdered his older brother, Frank. If not for Nate's presence, Frank surely would have perished. Nate had grabbed Leonard's keyboard from the computer and smashed the keyboard over Leonard's head, knocking him unconscious. It had been the only way that Nate could have removed Leonard's hands from his brother's throat. And later on, Leonard had thanked him profusely for what he had done. And luckily, Frank had chosen not to pursue the matter by pressing charges, although the two brothers hadn't spoken much since the whole episode.
There weren't many people left who were still on speaking terms with Leonard, no matter how nice of a guy he might have been while medicated. Nobody wanted to take the chance, not that anyone could have blamed them for their decision. Nate was one of the few who still stuck by Leonard to this day, one of the few brave enough to risk the dangers of being in such a man's presence on days such as today. But Leonard wasn't to blame for his actions in such a state of mind. And it wasn't like he'd asked for his illness for that matter.
That may be true, a cynical voice spoke up in Nate's head, but all the same, should a psychopath like Leonard REALLY be allowed to drive in his present condition.
Good point.
But Nate had learned years ago of the folly of arguing with an unmedicated Leonard Smith.
Guys like that shouldn't even be allowed to walk the streets. They're a danger to themselves and everyone around them. Lock 'em up in the nearest asylum and throw away the key.
Such an ugly, heartless thought. Yet it had been the stance that everyone else seemed to cling to. Nate's wife, Laura, had insisted time and again that Nate should cut his ties with Leonard, stop car pooling with him to and from work everyday, stop making excuses for him, and to cease making Leonard his responsibility. Even Karen believed that Leonard was best suited in a padded cell and monitored twenty-four hours a day.
Leonard, of course, was fiercely opposed to the idea, and Nate was against it as well. Leonard, no matter what kinds of problems he had, was still a human being with a good heart, entitled to his freedom and privacy just like everybody else. He wasn't some ninety-year-old vegetable that needed to be thrown away to rot in an institution somewhere for the rest of his existence, forever alone and forgotten. Overall, Nate upheld the conviction firmly.
But at times, the belief faltered and he wondered vaguely if it wouldn't be better for everyone's sake and peace of mind if Leonard were institutionalized after all. Such thoughts brought about nothing but guilt and shame, but they continued to lurk within the back of his mind. And at times like these, they became very, very compelling.
"The cops and medics should be killed as well," Leonard spoke up yet again, his face beat red, his fist tightly clenched, the veins protruding like cords beneath the skin of his hairy forearm. "They should all be killed for taking so fuckin' long clearing the road and getting traffic back to normal. Goddamn it, we've been stuck here for a fuckin' hour already, and I just wanna get the fuck home!" He slammed his fist against the steering wheel once again, blaring the horn.
Nate nodded. "Yes, of course they should die," he feigned agreement. "Crucify 'em and boil 'em in oil, I say." Such a statement would have been humorous under other circumstances, but when he made it now, he had meant for it to be taken literally, even if he didn't really mean what he had said. Nate had learned long ago that when Leonard was in an unmedicated frame of mind, it was best, in most cases, to agree with every word he said. When Leonard had actually been serious about wanting to kill someone, and had the means to carry out such threats easily, then it was best to at least try to intervene, as he would be putting someone's life in danger (for a ridiculous reason, no doubt), and his own freedom at risk as well. But killing the one who had gotten into an accident, causing this massive back-up on the highway, wouldn't be easily accomplished, and some part of Leonard must have realized that as well, for he remained seated, regardless of how angry he had been. Nate had been within the closest proximity of Leonard, seated not even a foot away from where the big, angry behemoth of a man (But he's usually so calm and mellow, Nate reminded himself absently.) so it was Nate who'd been in the line of fire now. Should Leonard go on one of his rampages, it would be Nate who would most likely perish when his best friend went on the warpath. The best way to quell such raging emotions was to agree with whatever Leonard had to say, no matter how ignorant, ill-conceived, or absolutely psychotic such opinions might be.
Nate sighed. Babysitting is SUCH a thankless job, he thought sullenly.
"Maybe I should just turn the fuckin' car off altogether," Leonard grumbled. "Might as well. Not goin' anywhere, you know." He slammed his fist against the horn of the car again. "Goddamn it, I can't afford this bullshit! Its a waste of fuckin' gas, waitin' out here like this, not goin' anywhere. A complete waste of fuckin' gas! Gas is expensive enough as it is these days without having this kinda bullshit putting a drain on the fuckin' tank. Christ, I don't need this shit at all!" His fist came down hard against the steering wheel once more, growling. "There goes another hundred bucks filling the tank all over again, and all because a couple of fuckin' assholes don't know how to fuckin' drive!"
"You can always turn off the ignition," murmured Nate, quietly, his voice trailing off. He had struggled to make the comment audible, but couldn't utter the remark above the incoherent mumble that it had come out as. Immediately after he had said it, he felt an abrupt shortness of breath. Even such a comment as You can always turn off the ignition, had been a phrase that was risky even to mouth off in Leonard's presence, even to think, in the unlikely event that Leonard might somehow detect the negative energy. Aw man, I should definitely not have said that at all, Nate thought ruefully, wiping the sweat from his brow and pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose.
Leonard said nothing in response, however, and appeared not to hear at all.
And on the radio, the AC/DC tune quickly gave way to the latest traffic report, which Nate listened to loosely, disquieted by the throbbing temples and veins over Leonard's reddened, sweaty face. He threw his rigid left hand over his head and, out of frustration, tore a thick cluster of graying hair from his scalp, growling madly as the traffic reporter rambled on: "A major collision has taken place at Route 95 South, and traffic is at a complete stand-still in all four lanes. Police and paramedics are working as fast as they can to clear the scene as soon as possible to get traffic moving again, but it is still highly recommended that you avoid Route 95 South whenever possible..."
"Yeah, NOW he tells us!" howled Leonard madly, his ravings now drowning out the voice of the traffic reporter completely. "You useless piece of shit, WHY DIDN'T YOU WARN US BEFORE HAND, MOTHERFUCKER?" Leonard threw his head back and screamed shrilly, in rage rather than fear.
"Calm down, Leonard--it...its not worth it..."
Leonard turned toward him, his blazing eyes pinning Nate down, and Nate shrank away, pressing his back against the door, his eyes raised fearfully as he saw the rabid foam dripping from both corners of Leonard's lips. Leonard raised his fist, ready to strike, and Nate was barely able to stifle a cry of terror. He wanted to throw the door open and bolt out of the car, continuing to run until he'd be at a safe distance from Leonard. Walking home from work, even if home had now been over a dozen miles from where they'd been now, even in this humid atmosphere beneath the blistering hot sun, hadn't seemed like a terrible idea at all at this moment; he would at least be out of Leonard's line of fire.
Nate had feared that Leonard would strike him now from the moment that Leonard had raised his fist toward him, but Leonard had surprised him by smashing his fist hard into the car radio instead. Leonard let out of a cry of anger as his he drove his fist into the radio, and Nate shivered at the crunching sounds as the hard plastic cracked and dented from the force of Leonard's impact. The voice of the traffic reported was immediately replaced by loud, piercing static, and then total silence. Leonard said nothing, only grinned triumphantly as he brought the back of his hand to Nate's face, revealing his ruptured knuckles and blood flowing thinly over torn flesh.
"Fuckin' smartass prick shoulda warned me earlier," Leonard grunted. His fist uncurled and the arm fell to his side. He wheezed and gasped, breathing hard, out of breath, and clutched his hand tightly over his heart.
Nate's fear for his own life left him then and was replaced by concern for his friend. He came away from the car door, now moving close to Leonard. "You okay, buddy?" he asked, his voice tense, but only because he was now worried about his friend, who looked as though he might be having a heart attack.
"Yeah, I'm fine," Leonard said. He wheezed and belched, and was then relaxed on his seat once more, as he had been before they'd been caught in this traffic jam, what seemed like a whole lifetime ago now. "Was a little dizzy for a minute there, but I'm okay, now," he panted. "Just a little winded, s'all." He looked at the smashed remains of the car radio and frowned. "Jesus, I'm sorry about what happened, Nate," he said, sighing ruefully.
"It's okay. No harm done, except for the radio...and your hand."
Leonard took a shameful glance over his wounded hand, then shook it briefly. "It's not too bad," he said, "just stings a little."
Nate felt a few warm drops of blood hit his cheek, but said nothing.
At times, a part of him almost derided a perverse form of amusement at the thought of Leonard, a grown man of thirty-four (with his thinning gray hair and fine lines and wrinkles, he appeared closer to fifty) throwing a temper tantrum as though he were still a toddler, screaming and breaking everything in sight. If he were but a spectator to a TV show with similar circumstances, he might find the whole situation absolutely hilarious. But with him being involved, and this happening to him right now, there was nothing funny about it at all, and any jokes regarding Leonard's current behavior would be viewed as gallows's humor, if humorous at all.
When Leonard had thrown his fits of rage, the dominant emotion running through Nate had been fear. When it was over, and Leonard was able to look down upon the ruins left behind after he had gone on the warpath, overwhelmed with shame and remorse, Nate felt only pity for his friend. He couldn't imagine how unbearable it must have been for Leonard, to know that his own sanity, is self-control, lay at the hands of disorganized doctors and whether or not these doctors would be able to mail out the prescription on time.
"I'm sorry for what happened, buddy," Leonard apologized somberly.
Nate patted him on the back. "It's okay, man, it's okay."
"Christ, I need my medication bad."
Nate nodded in agreement. "That's for sure."
Leonard took another glance at the smashed radio, shaking his head shamefully. "I can't believe I did that."
"It's okay, Leonard," Nate said again. "Just calm down, okay, man, calm down."
"Okay, okay, I'm sorry. I'm calm now. I'm okay."
"Okay, Leonard, just relax. It's just a traffic jam; not the end of the world, and not worth getting angry about. Relax. It'll clear out soon, so just sit back and wait."
"Okay, you're right. I'm okay now." Leonard sat back on his seat, breathing heavily, and staring ahead at the back of the Ford Explorer that remained ahead of them, completely stationary.
They sat there in awkward silence for what seemed like an eternity, with Nate wishing more and more that he had been the one behind the wheel rather than Leonard. During that time Leonard seemed to be able to keep himself under control, yet Nate knew how sporadic his friend's fits of rage might be, and how they could often come when least expected. Nate didn't trust Leonard when he was in such a state of mind, and feared that Leonard might at some point grow impatient again. Waiting in this dense traffic jam, roasting in the car on this hot summer afternoon would eventually trigger him again, and he might do something not just irrational but completely insane. For all Nate knew, Leonard might release pressure on the break pedal, allowing the car to coast into the rear of the Ford Explorer in front of them. Perhaps he might press his foot upon the accelerator, forcing it all the way to the floor, rear-ending the Ford Explorer at an even greater speed and doing a greater amount of damage. Had Leonard been on his medication, such fears would be unwarranted, but when unmedicated, anything was possible.
But Leonard remained seated, sweating like a pig but remaining eerily calm, somehow. He occasionally squeezed a little too tightly against the steering wheel, and had a scary look of blazing anger in his eyes, as though he might go off at any second. Both of these factors unsettled Nate greatly. He brushed his arm over his forehead, wiping away the sweat from his brow. For some reason, he didn't want Leonard to see how afraid he was at the moment.
"Come on, you useless sons of bitches," Leonard muttered under his breath.
"Calm down, buddy," said Nate, his voice wavering. He had drawn no reaction from Leonard; the man's eyes didn't even veer in his direction, and somehow, this relieved Nate slightly, but not to any noticeable degree.
Nate flinched back as Leonard rose his fist and then brought it down like a hammer against the steering wheel, blatting the horn yet again. "COME ON, YOU USELESS SONS OF BITCHES!" he screamed, foaming at the mouth, and then sat back down, his eyes twitching, and appeared calm again. Nate couldn't bring himself to tell him to calm down this time. "I wish those bastards would hurry up with this shit," he muttered.
"So do I, buddy," Nate replied, breathing heavily. "So do I."
I'm telling you, Nate, the guy needs help, Laura always said to him, particularly on the occasions when Nate hadn't had his medication. The medication is a crutch for his problem, and that is all. And its a crutch that he doesn't always have, that he can't even depend on.
Its not his fault, Laura, Nate insisted upon the many arguments they had held regarding the topic of Leonard Smith.
I know that, but still...it's not safe having him on the streets like this.
Maybe if those damn doctors could get their shit together and send the goddamn prescription on time, it wouldn't be a goddamn problem!
Well, they can't! I just think the best solution for all of us would be to put Leonard into a home somewhere.
Fuck that! We're not putting him in an asylum!
It might be the only way--
When he's on his medication, he's never a problem, you know.
Yeah, but when he doesn't have it, he's a danger to himself and anyone around him, Nate, including you!
He's my friend and he's not going to hurt me.
As Leonard--when he has his medication--he IS your friend. But without the medication, he is a completely different person. A DANGEROUS person.
I can calm him down. He hasn't hurt me yet.
Yeah, but there's a first time for everything. And you can't hold the monster back forever.
Come on, Laura, its not like he's KILLED anyone yet.
But he's come very close. And what if YOU'RE his first victim?
Of course, Nate just had to laugh at this one. Come on, Laura, he had said, chuckling. He's my best friend and he's not going to kill me.
You never know...
Enough already! Nate had finally snapped. He's not going into a mental institution for the docs to abuse and molest him, and that's FINAL!
At times, particularly now, Nate wondered if perhaps his wife had been right all along. Perhaps it would have been better for all concerned parties if Leonard had been institutionalized and monitored rather than allowed to roam freely on the streets. Karen insisted the same thing as Laura (Karen and Laura had remained close friends even after Karen had divorced Leonard, though Laura had firmly conveyed her wishes that Leonard not step foot in the Bundy residence). The thought that perhaps Leonard was nothing more than a psychopath, whom could control himself and behave as a human only when on mind-altering drugs—was constantly on Nate's mind, reinforced by all of his friends and family, and he struggled not to give into it.
Leonard brushed the back of his hand over his mouth, wiping the foam from his lips. His eyes still blazed angrily, his hands still tightly gripping the steering wheel, the veins of his inner wrists still corded beneath his skin. A closer look at the side of Leonard's face told Nate that his friend's temples were still throbbing. All of these things made Nate feel all the more uneasy about the whole situation. He wished that he were the one behind the wheel, but then wondered how much of a difference that would truly have made.
But Nate didn't want to think about that at the moment. Nor did he want to think about the illness Leonard suffered from at all, thank you very much. He didn't want to think about how it got worse for Leonard as he grew older—his progression toward mental chaos, toward total insanity. Nate didn't want to think about any of that crap. Nor did he want to speculate whether or not the medication would continue to help his friend five or ten years down the line. They were such dismal thoughts that only helped to make the present situation a hell of a lot worse, so Nate had to push them away and try to think about something else.
Nate thought of Laura, who was now four months pregnant. Even now, he still couldn't believe that he was about to be a father, that he and Laura had actually created life. They had tried for six years to procreate, and it had finally happened. He remembered how excited he had been when he had heard the news; how happy they had both been. And who had been the first to congratulate the young couple but Leonard Smith, Nate's best friend.
I don't want our baby to grow up without a father!
The thought had startled Nate out of the excitement brought about by his reflections of the day two months ago when Laura had found out she was pregnant. Had Laura actually said that to him? Certainly not on the day of her wonderful revelation. That had been a happy day, and the subject of Leonard and his unmedicated insanity hadn't once come up on that glorious day. But afterward? Nate couldn't remember for sure, but the thought of her saying such a thing nagged him at times. Perhaps he might have imagined it at some point. He supposed it didn't matter.
You're about to start a FAMILY, Nate. Do you REALLY need the stress of babysitting a psychopath? You have a responsibility to your FAMILY now. Get your priorities straight!
Of course he knew that he would soon have a responsibility to his family now, and that's why he had decided to quit smoking when he learned of his wife's pregnancy. No need to expose his kid to second-hand smoke, after all—as if the anti-smoking commercials couldn't be convincing enough. That too had made Laura happy, as she had been nagging him for years to quit that filthy habit. At least now he had more of a reason to quit—if nothing else, it would set a bad example for his kid later on, he reasoned. Though going without the tobacco at times was more difficult than he had thought, particularly at times of great anxiety, when he was up late at night worrying about whether he would make a decent father or screw his child up completely.
Or times such as now, when Leonard was about to go on a rampage.
Christ I could use a smoke right about now, he thought warily.
On instinct he fished through his pocket for a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, then pulled out his hand upon realizing that he wouldn't have either in his pocket anymore. He had flushed the last of his smokes down the toilet on the night he had decided to quit. Just as well, he thought. After all the crap I went through trying to quit, spending all that money on the patch and all that time on those websites designed to help people quit, do I REALLY want to ruin it now? The answer, of course, was no. Plus if I give in now, then the monster wins, he added, looking directly at Leonard, and sighed. Can't let the monster get to me.
Can't let the monster get to Leonard either.
And so they sat, both Nate and Leonard soaking in perspiration from the stress of their current situation and the shear humidity of the atmosphere. With Leonard, there were a few false alarms, times when it looked like he would snap once again, but then calmed himself down, sitting back in the driver's seat, sweating, sometimes swearing under his breath, but he otherwise managed to keep himself under control. And Nate sat, his emotions shifting hot and cold, his fear growing and receding, his heart rate quickening and then slowing once again. The urge to smoke intensified and waned, but he ignored it altogether. He had no cigarettes, so there was nothing else he could do.
"Fucking waste of gasoline," muttered Leonard.
"You are absolutely correct," Nate feigned agreement. "They should definitely reimburse us for the gas we wasted here."
"No doubt about that," said Leonard. "They should pay right out of their pocket."
Nate nodded. "And if they don't, we'll take 'em to court."
"That'll teach the rat bastards to get into a fucking accident and cost me twenty bucks out of my own pocket to fill the tank again," Leonard nearly screamed. "Motherfuckers will learn how to drive more careful after that, won't they, Nate?"
Nate nodded again, fighting hard to suppress a grin. "They sure will, buddy."
"Got that right!"
Nate wanted to laugh so badly, but he fought to stifle his laughter as well, which made him sweat even more. "At least we don't live in Europe, though," he said, "where gas is over five bucks a gallon."
"Ugh! I don't wanna even think of that!" exclaimed Leonard. "Oh boy, would I really feel bad for the son of a bitch if that were the case," he said, cracking his knuckles.
That is such a scary thought, Nate thought, shuddering, and for all the wrong reasons.
As time went on, traffic began to pick up very slowly, and very gradually. At first it was stop-and-go. Leonard would inch his Plymouth a foot or two ahead, and they stop again behind the same Ford Explorer that they seemed to have been sitting behind for the last ten years in the blazing sun. It almost seemed as though the traffic jam were now taunting them; allowing them to gain a little distance before it stopped them in their tracks all over again, laughing mercilessly at the two occupants in the Plymouth as well as all the other motorists on Route 95 South.
"Come on, goddamn it!"
"Calm down, Leonard...at least we're starting to pick up the pace a little."
And after what seemed like another hundred years, they finally did pick up a little more speed, very gradually, until they were finally able to keep up a consistent speed of around twenty miles an hour. Even then, there was still a danger that they might be stopped, despite the cluster of cars now starting to break apart; it could still thicken again, but Nate didn't want to tell Leonard that. Leonard was starting to calm down a little, to become almost in a state of euphoria as traffic was now finally moving.
"Yeah, this is more like it!" cheered Leonard in triumph.
Somehow, this relieved Nate slightly.
The traffic jam had ended now; they could both rest assured of this fact. Whatever accident up ahead was now cleared out. Travel was still slowed, as it was still rush hour, and there would still be a few gawkers looking at the side of the road, but Nate was confident that things wouldn't get a bad as they had been just now for the rest of the night. The worst was behind them; that they could be sure of.
Nate had caught a quick glimpse of the five-car collision, now pushed aside to the break-down lane, the police cruisers and ambulances at the scene with their flashers splashing blue and red light over the atmosphere. He could even make out a few of the injured laying battered and bleeding on stretchers as the medics rushed them into the ambulances. Nate couldn't get a good look at the scene, however, because Leonard never slowed down a minute to gawk at what had been going on, but instead kept his foot firmly on the accelerator and his eyes glued to the front of the road. He didn't care about those that were involved in the accident, whether or not they would live or die, or if they would spend the rest of their lives crippled in a wheelchair. All Leonard cared about was getting home, and there was still an hour left in the commute.
The sooner we get home, the better, Nate thought.
Leonard never slowed the vehicle, but instead continued to weave in and out of the high-speed lane, passing all the cars that had been going slower than he was (he was going about ten miles over the posted speed limit at this point), and ignoring their blaring horns and obscene finger gestures, which had been a pleasant surprise to Nate, of course. Perhaps Leonard hadn't caught the other motorists doing it.
The breaks of the Plymouth suddenly squealed as Leonard slammed his foot on the break when Jeep Wrangler suddenly cut them off in the high speed lane, suddenly swerving in front of the Plymouth at a slow pace, causing Leonard to nearly rear-end the jeep. "What the fuck?" shouted Leonard as he was forced to slow the vehicle down, nearly bringing it to a halt. "The motherfucker's nearly caused another fucking accident!" The breaks continued to squeal until Leonard released pressure, never bringing the vehicle to a complete halt, but slowing down significantly, matching the speed of the jeep in front of him and following very closely, pounding his fist on the horn. "You son of a bitch!" he cried, opening the window with his left hand as he brought his right hand, clenched in a fist, down hard upon the horn again.
The occupant in the Jeep Wrangler, a slender man with a balding pate (Nate could only see the back of the man's head from here), merely raised his hand and flicked Leonard off before speeding up a little. Leonard sped up as well, still tailing the jeep, a mere five to ten feet away from the bumper.
"Jesus, Leonard, you're driving too fucking close!"
"Shut up!" snapped Leonard. "Goddamn it, I'm gonna wreck that fucker! He's goin' down. He's gonna fuckin' DIE!"
"Leonard, please...please man, just calm down!"
"I'M GONNA FUCKIN' KILL THAT MOTHERFUCKER!"
Nate sat back on his seat, about ready to panic now. Leonard had finally lost it, and Nate feared he might never be able to reach into his old friend through the monster that had now finally taken complete control. Oh shit, man, what am I gonna do?
The jeep veered to the right lane, and Leonard swerved sharply and continued tailing him. The jeep slowed down a little, and Leonard slowed the Plymouth down as well. The jeep sped up, and so did the Plymouth, mimicking the movements of the jeep in front of it, matching it speed for speed, and following it into each lane, never allowing the jeep to get farther than five to ten feet away from the front bumper of the Plymouth.
"Please, buddy, just let it go. Let it go, man, its not worth it."
"That fucker's DEAD, you hear me? He's fucking DEAD!"
"Goddamn it, Leonard, you kill him, you'll go to jail! Do you really want to ruin your life over this? He just cut you off. It happens to everyone. Please, just let it go."
Leonard only tightened his grip around the steering wheel, keeping his foot pressed firmly to the accelerator and maintaining his sharp, predatory gaze to the rear of the Jeep Wrangler. He was on the warpath, and this time, there was no turning back, no reaching out to his humanity, and apparently, no way of stopping the monster from ruining the life of the man.
Damn you, Doctor Morris.
Finally, the Wrangler veered to the breakdown lane, coming to a halt, and of course Leonard came to a halt six inches behind the bumper of the Wrangler and killed the engine. He watched, fixated, while the man in the Jeep began to exit the vehicle, a thin man in a gray muscle shirt and blue jeans, wearing mirror lensed sunglasses, short black hair and a scruffy beard. His arms were green and red from various tattoos painted over the skin. He encircled the rear of the jeep, pulling the cigarette jutting from his lips out of his mouth and tossing it aside, gray ribbons of smoke billowing from his nose and mouth.
"Let's just go, man. Please, just let it go."
"No can do, Nate."
"Come on, man, let's just go home. This guy looks dangerous."
"Dangerous, huh?" sniggered Leonard as he patted Nate over the head. "Don't worry, buddy, because so am I." And with that said, Leonard stepped out of the vehicle.
Nate sat back in the passenger seat, feeling a rising in his guy as his heart began to beat faster once more. He felt powerless now, defeated. He couldn't stop the monster this time, it appeared. And now, in this insane case of road rage, the insanity was headed way beyond the point of no return.
He stepped slowly out of the Plymouth, fixated at the sight of Leonard and the tattooed man arguing on the grass, screaming and swearing at them. The tattooed man finally drew a gun, what appeared to be a .45 caliber pistol, and Nate lunged forward, tackling the tattooed man and forcing him to the ground. The tattooed man screamed shrilly and a shot was fired into the air. All of this happened in a span of about five seconds.
"Stop, Leonard, goddamn it, enough!" shouted Nate.
Leonard turned, now holding the .45 caliber pistol and pointing it at Nate. "Stay out of this, Nate. I'm warning you, you son of a bitch, stay the fuck outta this!"
"Please, man, just let him go."
"I said SHUT THE FUCK UP!" Leonard yelled and squeezed the trigger of the .45. The barrel flashed as the gunblast went off like a crack of thunder. Nate felt the bullet slapping him in the chest, burrowing deep into his heart, and then bursting out from his back in a spray of blood, tissue, and bone splinters that caked against the side of Leonard's Plymouth. His knees buckled as his spine shattered, and then he fell backward, his back hitting the blood-drenched passenger side door of the Plymouth, sliding down the wet metal until he was in a sitting position, looking up at the bright sun as it blurred within his darkening field of vision.
Don't be so sure Leonard won't kill you, Nate, Laura had said at one time or another, crying, and she had been right all along. Nate could see that now, sitting against the door of his friend's car, bleeding to death, his heart now nothing more than torn muscle, no longer beating. He was wrong all along, wrong to try to babysit a psychopath like Leonard when he was neither equipped or qualified to deal with someone as unstable. He was wrong all along, and hadn't come to realize it until it was too late to do anything about it.
Nate thought of his wife for one last time, of the child that they had created. They had created life, and now, Nate would never be able to see it. His child would grow up without ever meeting his or her father. Nate had given up smoking for his child, whom he would never even be able to meet, and now thought absently that perhaps trying to quit smoking--in his case at least--was nothing more than a waste of time. A teardrop scrolled down his face as he thought of Laura, who would now have to raise the child alone, and how he was now deprived of the opportunity to watch his son or daughter grow up.
"I love you, Laura," Nate whimpered as his entire body went numb.
He raised his head slowly, blood gushing from his nose and mouth, and the last thing that Nate Bundy saw before he died was the look of utter horror on the face of Leonard Smith, the trail of tears shining over the big man's haggard, horrified face as he then turned the smoking gun on himself.
The End.
April 22, 2002
July 07, 2002