It was rush hour in the big city. Thousands of little worker ants were marching their ways home from the amber mines to meet up with their wives, their kids, their mistresses. It’s a well-oiled machine—until the big magnifying glass of fate takes aim on that ant farm. That’s when you realize there might not be enough of you left to sweep up in a dustpan.I was humming along on the 635 in a black Chevrolet sedan last night right there with them. The promise of a warm brunette, a happy kid, and a shot of whiskey kept me pointed north. When all of a sudden I heard it—the faint flap of trouble coming from the left rear size seventeen bologna. I made my way to the side to check it out, my hand caressing the .38 in my pocket. My inspection turned up snake eyes. All seemed quiet, so I slipped back behind the wheel and continued on my way.
The flapping sound lasted for about five more seconds when whatever must have been hiding underneath the tire disengaged and jettisoned out the back, making a lovely clonking sound as it departed. Everything felt normal. Must have been something caught in the tread. I continued on my way, overtaking a cab over Pete in the left lane of the busy six.
