Second section. First one is here:
Reza’s finger shot out and hit preset number two: like he was going to want to hear NPR’s opinion on the Israeli/Palestinian conflict. But 88 had rap music; preset number three gave him some kind of cornpone hipster bluegrass on WREK. Whatever; they’d play metal next, or maybe dubstep. Now the line was starting to move a little bit; the cop out there had a rhythm going.
He looked over at the sweet Beemer next to him, smiled at the sickly-looking kid in the front seat, inched up half a car length, switched it back over to 88. Still that fucking rap. Then Bam! A bolt of lightning blew the whole sky to shit. And it started coming down so hard the wipers were useless. He looked up to see a white chick on one of those fancy bikes that weighed about a pound slide down between the two rows of cars, all the way to the front, which would normally make him want to set the bitch on fire, but she was so soaked he almost felt sorry for her.
His eyes got drawn back to the Beemer, where the kid was waving at him. Reza smiled, nodded, then just as his head started to drift back, he did a doubletake, refocused. In the fog on the window the kid had written HELP. Well, it was backwards, and now that Reza looked closer, it was HLEP. But the look in the kid’s eyes was no joke.
As Reza’s mouth dropped open, the Beemer’s driver turned toward him; then the car double-clutched, popped into the opposite lane, blazed around and through, sheeting the cop with water as she blew her whistle at him, then gunned it up the hill, almost nailing the chick on the bike.
Julian Cage 
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