Vigilante justice

This Sunday morning I had an epiphany: I wanted a shot gun.
A driver leaned out hishad just window and shouted obscenities at me for no apparent reason other than I was on a bike and he was in a large green van. It wasn't the first time I'd felt that vulnerable and angry while riding my bike, but it was a tipping point.
No one will frack with me if I ride with a giant hunting rifle strapped across my back, I told my husband when I got home.
But apparently it's practically impossible to get a gun permit in New York City.
I considered getting a fake gun, though I really wanted to be able to shoot out tires. Maybe a battery-powered nail gun would do the trick, I mused. Or a paint-ball gun. Nothing like a large blob of fluorescent pink paint to deter a bike-lane hogging SUV.
I'm not normally an aggressive person, but when I get on my bicycle, everything changes. Since the cops don't police cars being douchbags to bikes, I wage my own war of vigilante justice. Biking to work last Wednesday, a parked cab pulled into me as I was passing. By the next red light, I'd worked up a juicy glob of spit and, as I drew even with the cab,I lobbed it at the passenger window. Justice served.
You are going to get killed if you keep this up, my husband warns. You need to just let it go.
I realize he's right, but I'm too angry. I've got to find a way to channel my rage into something that's a little less likely to get me shot. So that how this blog was conceived. Vigilante justice 2.0.

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