T-75
- he had a car manufactured for illegality, why didn’t they just cap the maximum speed that these things were capable of rather than go to all this expense? It’s not like they kept you informed on the changes, at first the whispering masses has passes on what little they knew, clawing together in their need for the knowledge that would defeat these monoliths on street corners, watching in sadness as one by one they fell from the roads “if they flash twice you’re done for, they’re linked to supercomputers, they don’t always work, they’re just a visual deterrant, there’s nothing inside them.” He knew better, things had changed, the game was no longer a game, they were out to reduce the number of motorists by as much as 50% he suspected, and of course no-one would be told.
T-74
- Maybe the anti traffic and pollution lobbying and the recent violence was making it’s mark, after all. This was why these albatross of modern invention had gradually become sleeker in design, more in line with the sophistication of surveillance gear that had existed for the last decade, there had been no need for the earlier monolithic design other that to lull the motoring populace into false security, a false security of their driving mortality, the monoliths were after all the archetype of clumsy, ineffectual detection, the kind of design the chattering classes had long since associated with inferior sophistication, the kind of design you could win against, out-do. In fact everyone had accepted them, just another facet of modern life, to be ignored along with all the other crap.
T-73
- He however realized with sadness that you couldn’t win, that the days of cut ‘em up, burn ‘em up, of road rage and the most thrilling road race were over. Each day he noted his favourite routes become increasingly riddled with deviously positioned cameras, one by one he discounted his favourite routes to work, each one a living testament to a time when he’d been free to participate in the world’s largest race, where every car had been his opponent, standing between him and an unspecified finish line. Certainly there was less traffic these days, it was a game of marathon musical chairs where the remaining competitors drove conspiratorially like old-age pensioners. One of his routes remained detector free however. He would allow himself a nostalgic burn each morning before settling back down to 30 with a sigh, no, it just wasn’t fun anymore. One day he went to his mail box to find a recorded delivery, it had been signed for by another conspirator, he never answered the door to the postman for precisely this reason, the letter inside was computerized.
You're doin' too much, do less.