Lefty sat in her car for a moment. She watched in her rearview mirror as the old man on the bike watched her. She knew he was waiting to see who got out of the car. So she did.

The old man came peddling over, his potbelly packed into a yellow spandex shirt. Men like that don’t deserve to be alive, she thought, repulsed by this old man’s total lack of concern for those around him who had to look at that jiggling pile of fat.

“There was a yield sign!” he barked at her.

Of course, had she been a man, this old fart would have never confronted her. She knew that.

“No there wasn’t,” Lefty said coolly. There had been… she had no idea why she was lying.

“Yes there was,” he snapped back.

“Leave it alone, old man,” Lefty said as she walked away.

The old man pushed his bike in front of her.

“I’m gonna count to three,” Lefty said softly, “And you had better be out of my way.”

The old man laughed.

“One,” Lefty said, staring him straight in the eyes.

He did not move. He sat there, his soft and squishy body trying to burst out of that yellow spandex, perched on his bike, his greasy smile spread into a grimacing grin.

“Two,” she said. Her voice did not change. She was completely calm.

He continued to smile dumbly.

“Three.”

The old man opened his mouth as though he were about to speak. But Lefty slid her hand into her purse and when it came back into sight it was clutching a handgun.

The old man’s stupid grin turned to confusion, then to horror, and then Lefty squeezed the trigger and erased that fool expression from his ugly face.

She turned and strolled back to her car. Her heart was pounding in her chest, she could feel her pulse in her neck, and her peripheral vision had faded to gray yet she was calm. She slid behind the wheel and took the time to fasten her seatbelt. She backed out of her parking spot and rolled over the yellow-spandex-covered pile of fat. She pushed her gearshift into first and pulled out of the parking lot, rolling over the old man again.

“Now, who’s weak?” she muttered to herself.