Bob Smith sits in his car, waiting for his turn at the stop sign. He’s been in the car for a while now, and, combined with the lack of sleep from last week, he begins to doze off at the wheel.

The sun beams down upon his bald, egg shaped head, turning the milky skin on the left side of his doughy body a nasty shade of tomato red. Sweat begins to pour down his head. In addition to the sweltering heat outside of the car, in which the air conditioning unfortunately does not run, Robert is also running late.

His phone buzzes, jerking him awake, and with that buzz comes the notification he had been dreading– “Hey Bobby-Burnt-toes, in case you hadn’t noticed, you’re running a bit late.” Bob had noticed, but forgot. “Was busy with something. Will be there soon. Go back to your mindless task, minion” He fires back. A few seconds pass, he may just be in the cle– “What happened?”

Nothing had happened, Bob was simply late. His response must be handled with care and grace: he chooses to simply ignore the text. An elegant response.

Another text buzzes into his phone, ”What, did u stick ur toes in another BBQ?” Bob fumes silently. You stick your toes ACCIDENTALLY into a traeger grill one time and all of a sudden you’re Bobby-Burnt-toes, the village idiot. Whatever. Bob would show them, he’d show them all. Somehow.

Bob looks around at the surrounding buildings, graffiti on the walls, and at uneven intervals there are even bits of litter. The city is going to ruin, Bob thinks.

It’s finally Bob’s turn at the front of the line. The disgusting paint that covers the walls of the city extends even onto the stop signs; however they remain effective, controlling the flow of traffic. Bob eases onto the gas, the everpresent, albeit five minutes behind, clock on his dashboard reminding him of his lack of time.

Stolen novel; please report.

Just as Bob’s car crosses the threshold into the intersection, a man crosses onto the crosswalk. Bob slams onto the breaks, narrowly avoiding the man by twenty feet, adrenaline coursing through his middle aged veins. The man looks Bob dead in the eyes, and continues walking across the crosswalk.

No wave.

“Hey!” calls Bob, out of his window, “You’re welcome for stopping!” The man continues walking.

No response.

No wave.

I deserve a response. Bob thinks, incensed. “I deserve a wave at least!” Bob yells. Once more, the man does no such thing.

No response, No wave, doesn’t even pretend to do a little half jog, which everyone knows is the bare minimum someone could do when crossing the street. It was like the man thought Bob was not even there. Like Bob was nothing.

Like he did not think of Bob at all.

And that. Won’t. Do.

Suddenly, the ruined city, laborious traffic, and above all ungrateful citizens became too much. The city needed saving, and only Bob could do it. Only Bob could save his city.

Turning up his music, Bob slams his foot on the gas pedal. The city blurring around him as he sped up, Claire de Lune by Claude Debussy crescendoing alongside him. Crossing the intersection, one could almost imagine he had gone over a speedbump. Bob craved more. Justice will be served, he thought with a smile.

Looking at his phone, Bob’s triumphant smile turns to a frown: Justice will be served after work.