The car sped swiftly down the freeway, a streak of stark black against a background of lush sunrise. Music streamed from the stereo, a bass line pounding it's own backdrop of sound.

I press trigger, I don't press people button.

Windswept, the driver's blond hair cascaded behind her, a pennant atop the vessel. Leather jacket clasped at her neck, sunglasses fixed on a firm face; she was the very essence of calm control behind the wheel.

Nobody chat gon' face me with somethin'.

Signs flowed by like so many faces in a crowd, each advertising distances and speeds, cities and attractions that could be found at exit 22 or down the U-turn route. She paid attention only to the road, the visual obstacles only passing by the corners of her vision. They meant nothing; only markers, milestones. Unimportant at the haste she was making.

Like how I have twenty-two in'a me something.

Cranking the volume as she cranked the speed, the swift staccato of the beat drowned the dull whine of the engine. It complemented the mood, the music. Made things seem faster, made the destination seem closer.

Ten is for you, so who gon' get the next dozen?

And the quicker she arrived, the quicker she could get things done. After all, getting things done was what she did best.

Foo'.

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