Fuck a flux-capacitor. If anything on the road is going to play God, it sure isn’t going to be some scientist in a sports car. That honor, of course, goes to Linda’s Mom-Mobile, a 2005 Honda Odyssey that reeks of bad oil and circus peanuts as it cuts you off on I-10 and slows to a 40 MPH crawl with neary an omnipresent state trooper in sight. This Honda Odyssey, whether you like it or not, is going to use all of its 255 horsepower to conquer the globe with just the slightest flash of the brake lights. The second they come on, hell itself comes alive. Students just trying to make it home in less than seven hours are dragged kicking, screaming and furiously horn-honking their ways through the nth dimension.
“If the lord didn’t intend for me to drive in the left lane, then I don’t know how I managed to get lightning to spawn under my tires as I merged into it,” Linda Vandross explained, hands firmly planted on ten and two as her sporadic five mile per hour accelerations continually jolted her family into what can only be described as asphalt induced trips. Her two identical twins Kætlyn and Cayeightlin are sucked into the magical world of Snapchat Filters on their parents phones in the backseat, physically morphing into button-eyed, bunny-eared abominations. Linda’s husband, comprised of a bag of flour in a toupe, is sitting in the passenger seat rightfully holding his tongue so as not to say anything offensive. “This is my road, and everyone else is just driving on it!”
Other drivers began noticing several strange phenomenons as the time passed on and the road signs stayed stationary. “I looked outside and suddenly realized the sun was setting in reverse, and we haven’t even made it to Busy Bee, yet. I’m not saying I’m scared, so much as terrified for my mortal soul,” Abby Dryer explained, clutching the wheel of her Chevy Spark for dear life. “I’ve never seen the sky split in half before, but I don’t think it’s supposed to sound like someone taking a shop-vac to a crate of lightbulbs.”
In light of the event, the entirety of I-10 has been spackled with ominous hazard warnings blinking across the encroaching void expanding through Live Oak. The most comprehensible message, amidst a jumble of cuneiform reads, “TIME IS IRRELEVANT. SPEED LIMITS ARE A CONSTRUCT. HAIL THE OLD GODS,” followed by an immediate neon flash. The signs collapse into the second dimension. Any hope once held, including getting back home before finishing another goddamn audiobook, has vanished.