Benkelstein, trying to recall the lyrics to a Rice Krispies jingle while driving eastward on Highway 70, almost missed the new sign. It was green, with white lettering. “To I-40,” it read, with an arrow pointing to the right. Benkelstein hit the brakes, just hard enough to slow to twenty-five miles per hour, and pulled off at the new exit. “It’s about time!” he said to his wife. “I was beginning to think they’d never get this road finished.”
“Hmm?” Mrs. Benkelstein said, looking up from her book.
“Why, this’ll cut a full ten minutes off our trip easily,” he went on. “Let's see, that’s twenty minutes round trip, and since we visit your mother once a month, twelve times a year--twelve too many, I might add-–we should--”
“I’m not listening,” Mrs. Benkelstein said. She went back to reading 101 Ways to Slice a Batard.
Benkelstein pressed on the accelerator as he mentally calculated the number of years it would take this new short cut to save him a full twenty-four hours behind the wheel.
Fifty yards in, Benkelstein passed the new road’s first sign. "840," it read, and below that, the word "Future."
"Geese cackle , feathers tickle, beets pickle . . . " he sang. "No, that's not it . . . "
Mrs. Benkelstein turned the page. "If you don't look where you're going, we'll be pickled."
Benkelstein took no notice. He was calculating how much time he'd save by exceeding the speed limit in increments of both five and ten miles per hour.
The SUV roared up a hill, and flew into the air when it reached the top.
Hmm, Benkelstein thought, maybe I-840 isn't finished after all.
Opening: Evil Editor.....Continuation: BuffySquirrel