Stan

Stan was not the man. 
Stan was dim, suffering, human. More morbid than wholesome. 
Stan’s mother was not the most beautiful flower in the bouquet.
Stan’s father was not the sharpest tool in the shed.
Stan inherited pretty much the worst qualities of both his parents. 
Stan was driving his car, a 1987 Honda Accord. It was red. It used to be red. 
It was a hot summer day, the sun was high in the sky. As Stan was driving down the country roads, with the windows open to let in the wind, the air conditioning was broken, he was passing motorcycles- mostly Harley-Davidson's.
The Harley drivers were not wearing helmets. Stan thought the Harley drivers were arrogant, and thought themselves invincible. 
Stan could drift into the oncoming lane and take a biker out. It wouldn’t be murder. It would be an accident. A car accident. He wouldn’t get punished for an accident. And only Stan would know it wasn’t an accident. It was justice. 
Stan could sideswipe the motorcycle and quickly get back in his lane. The cyclist wouldn’t talk. The cyclist would be dead. 
Stan’s fantasy was coming to fruition in his mind. Only a genius could get away with murder. Stan was smart. 
Stan’s car gave a shudder, then a spurt. And the 1987 Honda Accord, that was once red, came to a stop. 
Stan ran out of gas.