Half an hour into tracking this kid in the black Dodge and you know you’re onto something. You don’t buy into this “Student Driver” malarkey. You know what’s going on. This 15-year-old asshole is following you – following you from the front.
Your wife asks if you think you might be overreacting.
Sure, you tell her, it’s possible you’re making too much of a fuss over this. Maybe Paul Revere was overreacting when he got on a horse in the middle of the night and warned his fellow patriots of the approaching British army. Perhaps Hannibal was overreacting when he trained elephants from infancy to serve as biological siege engines to march on Rome. Hell, maybe Mario was overreacting when he stomped on the heads of several hundred miraculously sentient mushrooms and lovable turtle-men in order to rescue a woman he has yet to seal the deal with after a thirty-seven year relationship, Ethel.
Shamed by your water-tight logic, Ethel falls silent.
You’re not going to let this little asshole get away with this; you’ll be quiet no more. Honking your horn relentlessly usually does the job when you’re trying to make a point on the road, why mess with what works?
Obviously stricken with guilt over his nefarious machinations, or perhaps panicked by the thunderous hoofbeats of the steeds of justice stampeding down the hills of the mountain of his misdeeds toward him, the pimple-faced teenager simply stops in the middle of the road.
You pull around on the driver side and roll down the passenger window. You shout past you’re wife that you’re on to him, remind him that he is indeed a scrawny prick and, before doing a donut around his car and peeling off to resume your regular route to the orthopedic hat store, tell him to learn how to fucking drive.