I was on my way to a fancy dress party.
My mate was driving in his rather mundane Rover 400, as the American Psycho - smart shirt, tie, shiny shoes, only spoilt by the red food poisoning he'd liberally splashed around as blood. I was dressed up in my Dad's old Police riot outfit - black bodysuit, utility belt, headstomping toe caps. No Police tags, because I wouldn't want to be breaking the law or anything.

Cruising down the A3 to Portsmouth, we get tailgated by a cunt in a Merc, who roars past us. My mate and I exchange glances, nod, he floors it and starts beeping and flashing his lights - we saw the driver do the double take in his rear view mirror as I held up my wallet (to suggest I MAY have some kind of identity in it...) He pulls over; we pull in behind, step out and walk up to him.

He's a fat old cunt, balding on top, and visibly perspiring as he has the window wound down. "Yes?" he stammers, trying to bluff bravado.
"Can you explain your driving back there, sir?" I ask, in a deadpan voice, staring at him. He breaks gaze. "Not really, officer." "So you have no justifaction for driving like a cunt then?" I ask him. He's obviously not used to being spoken like that, because he opens his mouth and then closes it, lips going thin.

"So how about you stop playing with the lives of everyone else on the road then, or I'll have your fucking license!" I spat at him, and walked back to my mates car. We pulled out and carried on, at a steady 70. He stuck about 200 yards behind us for the entire way to Portsmouth, like the bitch that I made him.
( Grrrmachine the indifference engine, Fri 13 Oct 2006, 16:11, Reply)