He arrived in a muzzle flash—a speeding bullet ripping through the orange horizon. Orchestrated by a wild spinning of tires, a reanimated cemetery of dust arose in his wake. It hovered like an apparition behind Leonard’s sports car as he tore down a barren stretch of desolate desert road. Not a single living creature could be seen or heard for miles, except for the occasional persevering cactus. After a few seconds the resurrected dust fluttered back to its resting place, until it would be called upon to haunt the next unsuspecting passerby.
Leonard sat idly behind the wheel of his speeding bullet, en route from Las Vegas to Los Angeles for an upcoming weekend photo shoot. Any normal photographer, especially one of his ilk and notoriety, would have just taken a private jet, but Leonard refused to fly anywhere. Most of his clients considered this fear to be highly irrational and quite the business problem, causing his personal assistant many scheduling headaches. But based on Leonard’s theory, if an airplane malfunctioned while airborne, most likely it would fall twenty thousand feet toward its untimely demise, but no matter how dangerous automobiles were—they rarely fell from the sky.
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