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Newport Beach, at Superior and PCH. A stoplight. You were in a compact truck that came screeching to a stop alongside my truck. We sat waiting for the light to change when a cat began walking across the street. The light changed, and everyone waited for the cat to cross, except you. To our horror, you yelled, “Hit it! Hit it!” and then did. Crushed the poor animal even as it tried to avoid your truck. For a moment, everyone sat there in shock. Then someone got out to check the cat's vitals. Not me. I chased you down, weaving in and out of traffic. You were cornered near the beach like the cat in your headlights. As I began to get out to stomp your sorry ass, my girlfriend reminded me of my probation and also how distinct my truck would be to witnesses. Shamefully, I backed out and let you go. Later that night, I felt sick thinking of that poor cat and how the Man kept me in check. But maybe you actually lived in our neighborhood. I got out my bike and searched for two hours until I found your truck—same bumper sticker, same license plate. I avenged that poor cat's death through the destruction of your paint job, and I kept myself out of trouble.
