Gemotions

He saw the flashing lights first, then the sickening crunch of metal on asphalt. Michael’s stomach lurched. His pristine, vintage Porsche, a masterpiece he’d painstakingly restored, was being hauled away. The dispatcher, a pimply-faced teenager, merely shrugged when Michael demanded to know why. “Private property, sir. No parking.” Michael's knuckles were white as he gripped the keys, the cool metal a poor comfort. The audacity of it, right in front of his house.

He stormed back inside, the words already forming in his head. The towing company's website was up, a target locked. He found the owner's address, and the next morning, a strategically placed brick found its way through the owner’s pristine front window.