The bottle had found its destined home beneath the pedal.
With a grizzly thud the pedestrian was there and gone, followed by a sickening bumping as the Pontiac galloped over the human obstacle, freeing the damning bottle. His foot still on the brakes, the preacher felt them give and slammed them on; the car spun ninety degrees to the right and stopped in the middle of the wet road.
Stunned, he climbed from his car and started to make his way to the victim. He walked around the front of his Pontiac and saw a jacket hooked into the broken grill. Pulling it free, the preacher carried the jacket over to the motionless form lying askew in the middle of the intersection. He looked down, but didn't recognize the poor soul; of course nobody could, streams of blood mixing with the rain ran raggedly down the victim's torn face. Feeling no pulse, the priest placed the black leather jacket over the lifeless victim; a folding Buck knife fell from the pocket. He pulled his cell phone out and dialled 911. Looking back toward his Pontiac he gazed at a large anarchy symbol engraved on his passenger door.