Rick strode out of HoJo's holding a plastic cup of ginger ale and a cone of butter pecan ice cream, one of their famous "28 flavors." Rumor had it that Linda thought they were going nowhere. Sliding into his Ford Cortina, he turned on the radio and drove out of the parking lot blasting Led Zeppelin's "Black Dog," headed for her crib. Just as he turned the corner onto a two-lane road, the honking started.
Wearing aviator sunglasses, a man flaunting a sleek, top-dollar Blackhawk behind Rick was beeping his horn. An inexperienced driver, Rick worried, "What did I do wrong?" But as the man persisted, Rick started to feel annoyed. He already had Linda to deal with. The man yelled, "Hey! …" but the rest of his words were drowned out by Jimmy Page's distorted electric guitars and John Bonham's thunderous drums. Soon, Rick was so flustered that he bubbled like a kettle on a stove. He ate one last mouthful of ice cream, stuck his arm out the window, and, with a flick of his wrist, tossed the cone backward. Like an ICBM homing in on a target, it sailed through the air, skimmed across the Blackhawk's hood, and rebounded off to the side of the road. One quick glance toward the rear was enough for Rick to see the man fuming indignantly. The man responded by furiously ramming his hands into the steering wheel and pounding it incessantly.
"That goddamn scoundrel! Jus' has to have his way 'cause he's filthy rich, doesn't he!" Rick exclaimed. Without giving so much as another look, he angrily chucked his cup of ginger ale back at the Stutz. It twirled lopsidedly a couple times before landing neatly on the windshield with a satisfying splat. At that moment, the traffic light just ahead abruptly turned red, and he was forced to slam on the brakes, skidding to a halt right in time.