And Then Acid Fell

(Second Story - First Chapter)

Driving down the expressway at 20 kilometers per hour wasn't the escape plan Goran had in mind. In reality, he wasn't following an escape plan at all – he was just making everything up along the way. It was still late in the afternoon but the rainclouds dampened the light quite a bit. The headlights of the oncoming vehicles blinded him. His sweat dripped down and burned his eyes, blinking heavily.

    “There you have it, folks! Your Pemberland City Stallions are the 2014 Holtzmann Cup Champions!” the car radio blared, the background noise filled with incessant cheering. “Tremendous display of athleticism, wouldn't you say? Now, we go live to David Asmus with the MVP: Gustav Heidegger. David?”

    The announcement hurt like a dagger through his heart, dashing what little hope he had left. This was supposed to be his game, this was supposed to be his ticket to the big leagues. Things weren't all that rosy for Goran before, but he knew when he was standing on a goldmine. Unfortunately, he also knew when the shit hit the fan – and, the shit hit the fan at about 5:41 left in the 4th quarter when the Stallions were up by, what seemed like, a hundred and the Turncoat's ace went down and grabbed his knee, wincing in pain. In reality, the Stallions were only up by 35, but the lead became painfully insurmountable when the only player that managed to close the gap was lifted out via a gurney. It might very well have been a hearse – at least in the minds of the Wendelsson hopefuls.

    He had the good mind to shut the radio off with his finger instead of his fist, before his rage became too frantic to be restrained. Get your head in the game, Gor. He pounded on the steering wheel, hoping that the harder he beat at it, the faster the traffic congestion would dissipate. From time to time he would join the chorus of honking, just so he felt that he and his dilapidated, silver hatchback belonged.

    “Goddamnit, Heidi,” he cursed at the incumbent MVP with the rhythm of the cacophony of horns as his background. “Goddamn you to hell!” He tried dialing his childhood neighbor, to no answer, as the latter was otherwise preoccupied at the moment. His neck stiffened while he gripped his phone even tighter. He imagined that he was wringing Heidi's neck with one hand – it didn't please him but he had to vent somehow.

    The two of them weren't far apart in age, about 4 or 5 years, but it didn't show. Gustav Heidegger was well-built, had looks that Society Magazine described as 'good' and 'chiseled,' tall and had a model-actress girlfriend that was the erstwhile 'Sexiest Woman of the Year.' On the other hand, Goran was balding, short and stubby. He had eye bags large enough to be considered a sovereign nation, a lazy left eye and chipped teeth, but was in shape – if you consider 'round' a shape.

    For all his misgivings, Goran also had a loving and caring live-in partner – Norah, his high school sweetheart whom he knocked up when she was 17 – and three kids who, fortunately, inherited their mother's features. She had every chance of leaving him before their second child was conceived but she chose not to. Even with all the abuse and the cheating, Norah just couldn't bring herself to disappear with their kids and leave him to his own devices. She loved him, and no one else but her knew why.

    The traffic drew to a standstill, and the rain started to pour. The condition on the other side – the one heading toward the city – wasn't doing any better. He was at the bridge, 20 kilometers away from the city limits. The gap between the outgoing and incoming traffic was usually home to jumpers who didn't want any sort of media attention – the shallow river beneath the bridge often killed them instantly, and they were too far away from the city for their friends and loved ones to stop. Goran thought about heading down the same road for a second, but just didn't have the stomach for it.