Tim Cho

There's a fork in the road just 10 miles from my home. 
I'd wait there in my car. 
Anxiously awaiting another victim. 
It was always after dark - after 1 am. 
When the headlights announced a new car approaching - I'd prepare. 
Position my car in a fashion that was hidden in the open. 
They'd almost hit my car with theirs. They took the bait. 
My anger and mania coalesced in a perfect symbiotic style. 
After the near-accident - I'd chase them. After a moment or two of me barreling down upon their bumper - they'd stop. We'd both get out of our cars. 
I was ALWAYS amped and prepared to fight. Poor little Asian man. SouthEast Asian. Chinese to be specific. I know because I took his drivers' license after the event. I threatened to kill his family if he ever pressed charges. 
His name was Tim. He threw the first punch. That justified my retaliation. His punch missed. 
I felt the crunch of the cartilage of his nose upon the knuckles of my right hand. The wetness of the blood. The blood on his face was literally steaming because it was February. 
Warm and wet. Up and down. Yellow and blue. 
He ceased asking me to stop because he could no longer speak. 
My foot hurt from kicking his limp body - a body that was sitting slumped against my car. Every rhythmic punch and kick I delivered was echoed by the thud of his head hitting my car. My rage was erotic. I was a deity. 
I told myself NOT to punch his throat - his Adam's apple. But I could not stop. Steam continued to emanate from Tim's head. He never cried. He never got the chance. 
I wasn't sure if I had killed him. He was unresponsive when I fled the scene. He never knew I took his wallet and removed his ID. 
My useless threats were met by nothing. Absolutely no sound or movement. I wanted to check his pulse - but I was afraid. 
I checked the police blotter and obituaries for Tim Cho. If he ever reads this - I hope he remembers,  to NEVER get out of the car.