Part 1Night Drive Nightmare

It was past ten at night by the time I finally left the library and drove home.

As I turned onto Oakwood Avenue, a narrow one-way street, headlights blinded me. A sleek black Porsche was barreling straight toward me, going the wrong way. I laid on the horn, hoping the driver would realize his mistake and back up.

Instead of stopping, the Porsche’s engine roared. The driver hit the gas and aggressively aimed his grille right at my hood.

Blinded by his high beams, I yanked the steering wheel hard, slamming on the brakes. My tires screeched, stopping barely two feet from his bumper.

Before I could even catch my breath, the Porsche's door flew open. A heavyset, bald man stepped out. He was gripping a heavy steel crowbar.

"You blind, stupid bitch! Do you have eyes in your thick skull? Learn how to drive!"

Panic spiked in my chest. He was completely unhinged. In my absolute terror, my foot slipped off the brake and hovered over the gas pedal.

…

"Honk at me again! I dare you! Do you not see the badge on this car?"

He marched up to my beat-up Honda Civic and kicked the side panel violently. With one swift motion, he swung the crowbar and smashed my side mirror clean off.

"A piece of trash Honda trying to block my road. I could total ten of these junkers and pay for them in cash!"

His face, heavy with fat and flushed bright red, pressed against my driver-side window. He pounded his meaty fist against the glass.

"Back the hell up! I swear to God, I absolutely hate entitled female drivers like you."

He kicked my door again. The deafening thud made my entire body violently shake. Tears of frustration and fear welled up in my eyes.

"You're the one who isn't looking! Can't you see the giant one-way sign?" I shouted through the glass. "You were driving on the wrong side! I honked to warn you, and you just flashed your brights and sped up!"

"If I hadn't slammed on the brakes, someone could have died!"

"Die then! It's what you deserve!"

The bald guy hammered his fists against my window a few more times. Still unsatisfied, he reached into his car, grabbed a steaming cup of takeout coffee, and hurled it directly at my windshield.

The sticky brown liquid smeared across the glass. I flicked on the wipers and fumbled for my phone to call 911.

The second the dispatcher picked up, the glass shattered.

The steel crowbar pierced straight through the driver's side window, stabbing brutally into my stomach.

Agony ripped through me. I curled inward, dropping my phone onto the floorboard. Choking back a sob, I threw my arms over my head and screamed my location at the fallen phone.

"Oakwood Avenue! Third traffic light on the one-way strip. A Porsche driver is attacking me. His plates are..."

The man kept swinging. The windshield spiderwebbed into a million jagged lines. The hood of my car was a landscape of deep, brutal dents.

Shards of glass sliced into my palms. The sight of my own warm blood made my mind go completely blank. When I looked up and saw him raising the heavy steel bar for another swing at my face, pure survival instinct took over.

I needed to reverse. I needed to get away.

But my trembling foot missed. I slammed down on the gas.

The Honda lurched forward with explosive force. The bald man, trapped right between the two bumpers, was crushed against his own Porsche.

A blood-curdling shriek ripped from his throat. It sounded like an animal being slaughtered.

"My legs! My fucking legs are broken!"

He collapsed onto the asphalt, his previous arrogance entirely vaporized.

A crowd had already gathered. An older gentleman standing on the sidewalk started clapping.

"Good! You served him right. God, that felt good to watch."

A younger woman rushed over to my window. "Don't be scared, honey. I'll testify for you. He attacked you first."

She held up her smartphone. "I got the whole thing on video. He was going the wrong way, running his filthy mouth, and smashing up your car for no reason."

As the adrenaline began to fade, a repulsive stench hit my nose. I recoiled in disgust.

"He reeks of liquor."

The woman with the phone pointed at the groaning man on the pavement. "You can smell him from a mile away. He's completely wasted, throwing a drunken tantrum and treating you like an easy target."

When the cops arrived, the woman practically shoved her phone into the officer's hands. With the video evidence, the situation was crystal clear.

An ambulance hauled the drunk driver away, and the police arranged a ride for me to the nearest ER.

On my second day in the hospital, the bald man's wife called me. She introduced herself as Brenda. She sounded soft-spoken and reasonable, asking if she could visit.

Assuming she wanted to apologize, I agreed.

She walked into my room carrying a basket of expensive-looking apples. She immediately grabbed my hand, her face a picture of exaggerated sympathy.

"Sweetheart, how are you feeling? Seeing you hurt just breaks my heart."

Her warm attitude made me drop my guard a little. I shook my head. "The doctors said the glass didn't cut too deep. I'll be discharged in a couple of days."

"Oh, thank God. Since you're not badly hurt, let's just get this settlement agreement signed right now."

Her tone shifted slightly, growing a bit more urgent. "My husband Boris is the sole provider for our family. He brings in about eight grand a month."

"Now that both of his legs are shattered, our rent, utilities, and the boys' private school tuition are all depending on this settlement money."

"Settlement money?"

I stared at her, thoroughly confused, and looked down at the document she pushed onto my lap. The very first clause was highlighted.

Party A voluntarily agrees to compensate Party B with the sum of one million dollars, exclusive of hospital fees.

Under Party B was the name Boris.