3 am in the morning. Coming back home on the highway after some out-of-state business. I was driving my AWD Mazda CX-5 Signature, with a turbocharged 4-cylinder 2.5 liter engine, along the barely populated I-95 North on this rainy night. Iridescent paint job. 227 horsepower. 6-speed automatic transmission. The thing was a beauty.
I was humming along at 65 miles per hour, with the windows rolled up and the radio blasting the late-night news on FOX 43. Something about a submarine that had imploded deep down in the sea, with no survivors.
It was a touch difficult to see - raining hard, the drops of water splattering across my windshield, and my wipers were going at their max setting.
I peered ahead through the rainy windshield, then glanced into my rearview mirror. No cars ahead or behind. This was how I liked it. Just me on the road. All night long.
All of a sudden, I saw headlights appear in my rearview about a half a mile behind. A car was approaching, fast.
I didn't think anything of it. Occasionally you had other people driving home from work or out-of-state business, like me, on the interstate, late at night. It meant nothing at all.
He seemed to be driving extremely quickly, though, and within perhaps fifteen seconds was directly behind me. I looked into the rearview again. I recognized the car as a luxury sports car, a Porsche 911 Carrera S. I could tell this was a newer model, with a sleek metallic silver body, 443 horsepower and a 3.0 liter 6-cylinder engine. A top speed of 191 miles per hour, and capable of going zero to sixty in 3.5 seconds.
As I was thinking this, the Porsche abruptly swerved into the left lane and drove up so we were neck and neck. It began to veer dangerously close into my lane, almost scraping the left side of my Mazda. I beeped the horn and looked angrily through my window into the window of the Porsche, trying to catch a glimpse of the driver.
It was tinted dark, but in that moment the Porsche's window rolled down and I saw a guy I estimated to be in his 30s with this crazy, insane smile on his face.
"Hey, you," he yelled to me. "Wanna race?"
My windows were down. I decided to ignore him at first, hoping he would grow bored and pass me.
After a few seconds of us driving along, he yelled at me again, this time louder, and with anger in his voice.
"I SAID," he screamed, "do you WANT TO RACE, IDIOT?"
I felt that action had to be taken, and if I tried to pass him he would take that as a yes to the race, and accelerate with me. I turned to face this crazy driver, smiling tightly and politely.
"No, I don't," I called back. "I'm getting off the next exit. It's in less than a mile."
"Come on, what are you afraid of, boy? If you don't race, I'll wreck your car!" He began to veer into my lane again. Too close. Oh no.
His Porsche scraped into the side of my freshly painted CX-5. I was too shocked for words. Then anger began to kick in.
"STOP, YOU IDIOT!" I screamed at him. "THIS IS MY CAR!"
He began to laugh, pulling his car away and then coming back in for a second collision.
That did it for me. My fury was sparked. This insane fool had the gall to hit my car and potentially cause an accident for no good reason. There was only one solution.
I was going to race him. And maybe crash his car while I was at it.
I slammed my foot down on the gas pedal. "Let's go. I'm not playin'!" I screamed at him.
The car leapt forward as if stung by a bee and the engine roared. The speedometer needle rose rapidly: 75... 85... 95 mph and rising.
Over the roar of my engine, I heard his crazy laughter and looked out the car window. He had stepped on it too and was passing my car with ease. Within seconds he was ahead of me.
I had the accelerator pressed down all the way and kept it there with my foot. Angrily, I watched the speedometer needle rise. 100... 110... 120 mph... 130 mph...
I began to feel giddy as my surroundings were flying by me. Trees, signs, and the highway were all blurring together. I was starting to get high from the speed.
If you aren't aware, a Porsche sports car is much faster than a Mazda SUV. I didn't have a chance... unless I did.
I had one trick left up my sleeve. The nitrous oxide.
I flicked open a box-shaped glass cover near the shifter and pushed the big red glowing button. The engine roared as the acceleration pushed me back into my seat. The car jumped forward, and the tachometer needle began to go into the red. I glanced at it. 6300 rpm. I had to do this quickly or I'd damage the engine.
140...150...160 miles per hour...
I began to catch up to him. I felt so angry, I just wanted to knock his car around a bit.
The only problem was that when you're going 160 mph and collide with someone's car, it's a lot different than at 65 mph. There's much less control.
I was closing in and had almost caught up, but the NOS was running out. There was one chance before he got out of range of my own vehicle. My car strained to reach the passenger door of his car, but just as I got into range, the NOS ran out.
"Noo," I groaned. The last thing I could do in the few seconds I had before my speed began to decrease again was smash into his rear passenger door. Without thinking, I sharply turned the wheel left and collided with him.
"Oh no," I gasped.
His car swiveled, fishtailed, and then he lost control. At full speed, his car collided into the barrier in the side of the highway and in a burst of fire, the engine exploded.
"No... I didn't mean to... what have I done..."
I had killed someone in a fit of anger.
