Gunshots as poetry
The man in the sedan cuts off the cab driver. The cab driver beeps his horn and the sedan's window unrolls and a pudgy hand comes out and limply flips off the cab driver. The cab driver gets out of the cab, his face streaming with sweat. He tries to get the man in the sedan to come out of the car so he can beat him up right there on the median strip. There's nowhere for the sedan to go. There was an accident at the intersection, and traffic is at a total standstill. The cab driver stands outside the sedan looking down at the man inside. The man is looking straight through the windshild trying to ignore him. The cab driver's hand turns into a solid rock, and he starts to punch the sedan's window with steady pounding thunder. After a dozen blows or so, the window splinters and cracks. Blood streams from the cab driver's knuckles. The man in the sedan looks like he just ate a big plate of his own shit. The cab driver looks at the small crowd that has gathered to watch the confrontation. He looks in at the man again and slowly goes to his cab, gets in, and waits for the traffic to clear.