His car was the one at the end of the third floor parking garage. I watched him from my own vehicle as he dragged his fat ass out of his car and into the building.

My hands tightened on the steering wheel as I sat watching him. Coffee in his right hand, breifcase in his left. Blue pressed shirt. Black pants. Tie. All pretty-as-you-please.

Oh, but they weren’t aquainted with him in quite the same way as I was.

I watched the door slip shut behind him, swallowing him up in a puddle of putrid yellow light.

I smiled as I turned off my engine and got out, keys in hand. I took particular pleasure in dragging my keys across the hood and sides of his pretty custom paint-job. Slashed all of the tires. Smashed the windows.

Sweating and crying, I stood back to admire my work, which was a car that had been reduced to nothing but a pile of junk-yard trash.

There was only one thing left to do. I took out a thick black marker and, on what was left of the hood, scrawled, Don’t you ever step on me again.