As Randy Sterling Bracken, incognito, half-Korean, self-appointed savior of his white father's faltering master race cruised up I-95 at 120 miles per hour in hopes of drawing pig attention, he was sorely disappointed. One Anne Arundel County Pig even waved at him and lit up his flashers in solute. A State Pig tried racing him in a Dodge Interceptor, gave up, and pulled over some old bitch in a mini-van.

The rage was building steady.

That was never good—well fuck good! Randy would have thought to himself if he were half self-aware enough to realize that he had a deep, deep need to kill the world, or at least that part of it he could wrap his hands around.

He had always hated God for making him a white-identified, white-looking ice-mud, shaving his head and even hiding his shovel-tooth incisors with his cruelly curled lip since age ten. Now he regarded God anew. For God was Time, and Time had became both his beloved escape from this infuriating Hell and his bane as well.

Randy Bracken wanted to wreck Time.

What was worse, he knew that Hoost knew, knew that that super-faggot would never let it happen, and had therefore such low regard for Randy's Time-wrecking ability he had given him the actual device!

Randy was a lot of contradictory and indictable things, but a compelling pawn he did not make.

He banked around the west side of Mooketown, as he called Baltimore, nest of his teeming enemies, that yet retained a sense of nostalgia for him, as he had killed his first man there as a wet-eared boy.

He was soon rumbling past Old Route 40, which his Grandpap had told him about being paved over the bones of their worked-to-death Irish ancestors.

Soon, after blowing by a Baltimore County Pig and flipping him the finger, to which the pussy pig did nothing but slow down and pull off an exit ramp, Randy had the Charles Street corridor in sight and began to spew rage in his mind, hateful flame and blood tinged scenes of carnage that shifted from him hosing down a shopping mall with a mini-gun to surreal images in which the world died like a whimpering woman floating alone in a void while he strangled her, and he wound it out: 125...130...135...140—there it was pinned, the shoulder of the highway felt like the Devil's own gullet and he thundered along, the sky crackling with the sparks that should have been flying from the hammer of Thor—a hammer that lay stuck in mud, in some fucking museum—

"Get out of my fucked-up way!"

And just like that, the muddy pit of crumbling despair, to which he would never return in this shadow of Time, disappeared in his rearview mirror as he roared up over the concrete loop in the sky that the gods of civil doucheneering had designed in their limitless wisdom to send the fleeing white faɡɡots of this dying city north into the sissy hinterlands—and he was bottoming out on I-95 again, done with the irritating loop that encircled his acidic memories of a life gone wrong, intent only on killing something ahead.

The speeding traffic stood still on the concrete ribbon as he crackled by on the asphalt shoulder, leaving them all—every rotten soul of them—mired in Hell, where they belonged.