This is an updated version of a certain special short story I wrote 6/27/2005.
Every so often, a car passes, the headlights prominent. It's five in the morning, the air is saturated with darkness, the deep menacing kind that seems to be Earth's way of letting us know she can get angry too. The tires of the truck make haste through newly formed pools of rain, all blending into a mirrored black fluid metal mass, sending a volley onto the sidewalk, making it even to the window from which I am so intently staring through. I know it's them, beyond any reasonable doubt. I would know it even if I was staring into my steaming cup of coffee--the hate and fear could be heard screaming in the splash against the windowpane, transmitted all the way from those heated leather seats.