So, it’s Christmas morning. 11 a.m. I’m driving on King Street in uptown Waterloo.
You know the vibe. The roads are empty. The lights are twinkling. The air feels soft and holy. The city is basically whispering. It was perfect. I was almost feeling peaceful.
Then he arrived.
Captain Horsepower.
He was driving a modified Dodge sedan. And let’s be honest, the car wasn’t running—it was screaming. It sounded like a lawnmower arguing with a jet engine inside a metal garbage can. It wasn’t a car. It was a rolling cry for attention.
There was a bus in front of him. The bus was doing 40 km/h. Legal speed. Safe speed. The kind of speed that keeps grandmas alive.
Mr. Dodge couldn’t accept that. Forty was beneath him.
He passed that bus like it had personally insulted his mother. Red lights became decorations. Optional. He flew through the intersection like he had a meeting with the President of the Universe and he was already late.
I sat there gripping my steering wheel, asking one question.
Where are the police?
I kept waiting for the flashing lights. I waited for justice. Instead, the only thing that spiked was my blood pressure.
Because I know how this usually works for me.
If I do 42 in a 40 zone, a police officer appears out of nowhere. Suddenly it’s “license and registration,” and my wallet starts crying.
But this guy? He’s running lights, roaring like a paid performer, and the universe acts like it’s looking at something else. Maybe the police were busy. Maybe they didn’t want the paperwork on Christmas.
So my brain starts making up stories to keep me from losing it.
Maybe the cops are dealing with real emergencies. Maybe they’re helping someone who actually needs help.
Or maybe karma took the day off.
We always talk about karma, right? The cosmic accountant. The force that balances the books. On mornings like this, karma feels like that lazy coworker who says, “I’m on it,” and then disappears for two hours.
People say, “Time will teach him a lesson.”
Time? Time is a clock on the wall. It doesn’t chase anyone. It just ticks while some people treat public roads like their personal video game.
That’s why life feels like a joke sometimes.
You make a tiny mistake? Wham. Penalty.
This guy risks everyone’s life? Smooth sailing.
It reminds me of that old story about the soldier. He survives a war. Bullets miss him. Bombs don’t touch him. He comes home safe. Then one day he’s walking in his garden—bonk. A coconut falls on his head. Lights out.
The battlefield couldn’t get him, but gravity and a fruit did.
That’s when you realize the truth. The world isn’t a courtroom. It doesn’t reward good guys or punish bad guys on schedule. A lot of it is timing. A lot of it is luck.
But I’ll admit one thing.
People who drive like that don’t look happy. They look loud. Loud isn’t strong. A calm mind can sit behind a bus without feeling insulted. A calm mind can stop at a red light without feeling small.
So maybe his punishment isn’t a ticket.
Maybe his punishment is living inside his own head. A head that needs to scream down King Street just to feel alive. A mind that buzzes like a beehive 24/7.
That sounds exhausting. Imagine needing that much noise just to feel important.
Me? I just wanted a smooth drive. I wanted a soft Christmas. Instead, I got a front-row seat to someone’s ego parade.
Maybe karma is real. Maybe she’s slow. Maybe she needs Google Maps to find this guy.
All I know is this: the road loves luck a lot more than it loves decent people.
And that truth is even louder than his empty exhaust.