Ellis drove at a sedate twenty-five miles an hour down Rt. 45. Beside him, Arnold watched as cars passed them like they were standing still, which, essentially, they were. When an eighty-year-old grandma honked and whizzed past, Arnold had to say something.
“Do you know where the gas pedal is?” he asked. “Even this pathetic piece of Ford junk can go faster than this.”
“Can’t speed up just yet,” Ellis replied.
Arnold withstood another thirty minutes of slow torture before he broke down. “We need to get this over with, Ellis. Speed up!”
“In just a minute,” Ellis said and checked his watch.
“What are you waiting for?” Arnold asked. “Christmas?”
“Nope,” Ellis answered. “Waitin’ on him to die.”
“What!” Arnold shouted and turned all the way around in the seat. “He was supposed to be dead two hours ago!”
“You didn’t hit him quite hard enough,” Ellis said. “He was still breathing when I rolled him up and put him in the back.”
“Why didn’t you hit him again then?”
“You kill, I drive. That’s the deal.”
“I can’t believe you! I should hit you over the head too. Nobody would blame me. It’d be a righteous kill,” Arnold stated.
“No need to be that way,” Ellis said.
“Stop the car and let’s get this over with!” Arnold snapped.
“No need,” Ellis replied. “He’s dead by now. We’ve been driving for two hours and it’s a hundred and twenty in the shade. Why do you think I’ve been driving so slow?”