Night 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 Porsches 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.

"A million dollars?"

My eyes nearly popped out of my skull. Brenda just waved her hand dismissively.

"Honestly, a million is cutting you a deal."

"You broke my husband's legs. You owe us a decade's worth of living expenses for my entire family."

She leaned closer. "Considering you're just a college student, I'm taking pity on you and only asking for a million. Otherwise, the tuition for my kids alone would be way more than that."

As if worried I wouldn't believe her, she whipped out a crumpled report card.

"Both of my boys are Ivy League material. They'll definitely be getting full rides to the best universities in the world."

"Ivy League? With a 2.0 GPA? Lady, are you drunk too?"

I shoved the paper filled with red ink away, offering her a cold, empty smile.

"Your husband drove drunk. He drove the wrong way. He publicly demolished my car while bragging that he was rich enough to smash ten of my Hondas and pay for them in cash."

"He was acting like he owned the universe when he was swinging that crowbar. And now you're sitting here trying to play the sympathy card, expecting me to fund your entire family for the rest of your lives?"

Wow. Birds of a feather really do flock together.

I grabbed the basket of apples, ready to kick her out. As I picked it up, a vile, rotting stench hit me.

Beneath the perfectly polished apples on the top layer, the rest of the fruit was entirely rotten. Some were literally crawling with maggots.

"It's just a trashy little Honda! Why are you being so vindictive?!" Brenda's polite mask completely slipped.

"My man just put a few dents in your car. You crippled him! You turned him into a useless cripple stuck in a wheelchair for the rest of his life!"

Seeing that I wasn't going to sign, she forcefully shoved a pen into my palm. She grabbed my wrist with surprising strength, trying to physically force my hand down onto the signature line.

Her violent pulling yanked the IV needle in the back of my hand. Blood immediately started backing up into the tube. I slammed my free hand down on the nurse call button.

The pen dragged across the paper, leaving a jagged streak of ink.

I grabbed the basket of rotting apples and slammed it directly into Brenda's face. I ripped her precious settlement agreement in half right in front of her.

"Take your garbage paper and get the hell out of my room."

"With the repulsive way you people act, I wouldn't settle with you if you paid me a million dollars."

"You broke his legs! That million dollars is a debt you owe my family!"

The bruised, mushy apples had completely ruined Brenda's makeup. She frantically wiped her face, getting mashed fruit and wriggling maggots all over her hands.

The nurses rushed in with hospital security. They grabbed Brenda, who was still trying to lunge at my bed, and practically dragged her out into the hallway.

"Fine, you little bitch! You want to do this the hard way? I'll show you the hard way!"

My phone buzzed with a text from her number. I immediately blocked it and grit my teeth while the nurse reinserted my IV.

After I was discharged, I went to the impound lot to take one last look at my totaled car.

It was a gift from my dad for my eighteenth birthday. The day I got my license, this was the car I drove.

I ran my fingers over the deep, brutal dents in the hood. I uploaded the dashcam footage to my cloud drive, untied the lucky charm hanging from the rearview mirror, and headed to the police precinct to give my official statement.

I figured it would just be a formality. The evidence was rock solid.

But the moment I walked into the precinct, I saw Brenda. Her frizzy hair was a mess. She slammed a USB drive onto the front desk, her nose pointed up in the air with unbearable arrogance.

"Watch this. Ironclad proof. That little tramp provoked him first."

Her so-called ironclad proof was a deepfake video.

On the monitor, "my" face was twisted in a grotesque sneer. "I" was violently pounding on the Porsche's window, revealing a mouth full of rotting yellow teeth.

"I can total ten of your junk cars and pay for them in cash," the fake version of me spat.

The AI rendering was terrible. The facial proportions were completely warped.

Only someone as delusional as Brenda would think her amateur editing skills were flawless enough to fool law enforcement.

"See?! My husband drives a Porsche! A custom paint job alone costs thousands! This psycho woman was trying to smash his windows in. My husband was simply defending himself with that crowbar."

She even pulled out her phone, showing the officer a chat log with some "expert" online lawyer, trying to pressure them.

"The legal experts online already confirmed this is textbook self-defense. That bitch deserved to get her car smashed."

She shot me a venomous glare, covering her nose like I was a walking biohazard. The disgust on her face was theatrical.

"She reeks of cheap perfume. Just look at the way she dresses. Does that look like a decent girl to you?"

"She's a cheap piece of trash turning tricks. She crippled my husband. If you cops don't lock her up immediately, what, are you waiting to become her regular customers?"

"Ma'am, we deal in actual evidence here. Our tech department ran the video you submitted. It's heavily altered. The original audio and actions belong to your husband, Boris."

The desk sergeant looked at her with pure exhaustion. "You submitted fabricated evidence, perjured yourself, and publicly slandered another citizen. We are officially placing you under arrest for criminal obstruction and defamation."

"Arrest me? On what grounds?!"

The moment Brenda realized she was actually going to be detained, she lost her mind. She started sweeping everything off the precinct's front desk, screaming at the top of her lungs.

"That little whore definitely paid you off! You're protecting a murderer! You're bullying a helpless family! Does the law even exist in this country anymore?!"

She grabbed a paper cup of water and threw it directly into an officer's face. When two cops moved to restrain her, she threw herself onto the floor in a theatrical swoon. She threw herself down a little too hard, and the back of her head cracked against the tile floor, drawing a thin line of blood.

The second she felt the blood, she started wailing, rolling around on the floor.

"I demand to see the captain! I'm taking this to the supreme court!"

Her tantrum was a well-oiled machine. It was obvious she had used this exact method to bully people into submission her entire life.

Unfortunately for her, she was throwing her fit in the middle of a police precinct, directly under a 4K security camera. No amount of screaming was going to save her from the handcuffs.

When two officers hauled her up by her armpits like a dead fish, Brenda actually looked confused.

She genuinely seemed baffled that her foolproof strategy had finally landed her in jail.

By the time reality set in, she was crying, begging them to believe that someone else gave her the video and she had no idea it was fake.

The officer just twisted her arms behind her back. His voice was completely devoid of sympathy.

"Too late for that. Enjoy your cell."

They hauled her off to the medical ward to check the cut on her head. I watched the chaotic mess left behind on the floor and sighed.

"You might want to book her a psych evaluation while you're at it."

"She seriously needs her head checked."

Brenda tried to play hardball and ended up deepfaking her way into a jail cell.

Now, the son was paralyzed in a hospital bed, and the daughter-in-law was locked in county jail.

Boris's elderly parents panicked. They hired a legal proxy to meet with me, begging me to sign a letter of forgiveness so they could bail Brenda out.

"They're a hardworking family. Boris is in sales. He has to drink with clients to close deals. He just had a little too much that night."

"Brenda is busy with the kids, and Boris wanted to save a few bucks on an Uber. He thought the streets were empty and he knew the neighborhood well. It was just a momentary lapse in judgment."

The slick lawyer pushed his glasses up his nose, his tone deeply serious.

"The family is willing to cover the damages to your vehicle. But they ask that you show some grace. Sign the settlement so Brenda can go home and care for her children. And please, drop the charges so Boris doesn't get a permanent record. It could ruin the kids' future college applications."

The lawyer was a smooth talker. He booked a table at a high-end steakhouse and ordered their signature dishes just to butter me up.

But the moment he slid that exact same absurd settlement agreement across the table, I stood up from my chair.

"They owe me for the car and my three days of medical bills regardless of any agreement."

"From start to finish, Boris is at fault. Why the hell should I pay the price for his stupidity?"

"You saw the dashcam footage. He literally said I deserved to die. Losing his legs is karma. I am not paying a single cent."

"You're being incredibly vicious for a young woman. You crushed his legs. Even just out of basic humanitarian decency..."

The lawyer furrowed his brow, trying to shame me. I just laughed.

"Humanitarian decency only applies to humans. Not rabid animals."

"Being this stubborn isn't good for your health, kid."

The lawyer sighed heavily, slipping the paper back into his briefcase. He shook his head.

"Boris is the golden boy of that family. You turned him into a cripple. Their resentment toward you is massive."

"You ruined their son's life, and now you refuse to pay a dime. When the payback finally catches up to you, it's going to cost you a lot more than a million dollars."

The payback arrived faster than I expected.

After the incident, my dad called my college advisors to get me a temporary leave of absence. He wanted me to stay home until the legal drama officially concluded.

"Boris's family are the neighborhood bullies. Now that you've hurt him, they're definitely going to come looking for trouble," my dad warned me.

"They already did. One of them is already in a cell."

My dad, Arthur, ran a very popular local deli. Weekends were packed, so I was helping out behind the counter.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the front door swing open.

"Welcome! Menus are on the tables, or you can scan the QR code to order."

An elderly woman waddled in. Her face was heavy with loose flesh, a massive knock-off designer bag slung over her shoulder. Trailing behind her were two chubby boys waving plastic action figures around, violently smacking them together. They nearly knocked over a glass bottle of hot sauce on the nearest table.

I quickly caught the bottle before it shattered. The old womans narrow, beady eyes locked onto me. She flipped aggressively through the menu before pointing a bony, wrinkled finger at my face.

"Your sign outside says unlimited soup refills if we order a large bowl, right?"

"Yes, ma'am. Free refills on the broth."

The old woman had a dark mole on the corner of her mouth.

I remembered seeing the exact same mole on Boris's face.