The hill wasn't steep. It was barely even a hill. Sometimes, the Angle of Death isn't sharp and pointed, sometimes, it's just a fraction of a degree.

James pulled his car to the edge of the road, the flat front tire flup-flup-flupping as he came to a stop.

"Bad words!" James shouted at the steering wheel. "Bad-bad-bad words, with a side of badness!" He shoved his door open, got out, slammed it shut and pressed himself tight to the side of the car as a truck zipped by only a few inches from his face, exhaust and dust pelting him.

Shaking, he moved to the trunk and opened it, getting out the spare tire and the jack.

"Stinkin' bad-words trucks and crummy bad-words tires." James had grown up with a mother that despised vulgarity, and used soap to remind him that those words were not to be coming out of his mouth, causing a lifelong habit of non-inventive non-cursing.

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He jacked up the car, not noticing the slight wobble as he cranked it.

"Sorry about this." A deep voice intruded into his soto-voce angry diatribe. He looked up at the dark shape that had appeared next to him.

"Sorry about what. Did you flatten my tire?" James' non-inventiveness apparently extended to non-imagination.

"Not the tire. This."

The car slammed into James, slowly rolling down the miniscule hill. This meant simultaneously rolling up his body, crushing the life out of him.

"I always hate it when it's not the victim's angle that matters, but someone else's." The deep voice sounded a bit mournful, as the pickup driver got out of his car, looking ill at the sight of James' m-angled form, rushing away and bending over. Gagging and the splattering sound of vomit followed shortly thereafter.

"You should have been more measured, Noel. It's plane I'll see you soon enough. I x-pect to keep a sharp eye on you."

Noel may not have heard the words, but he shivered uncontrollably as he continued to void his stomach.