(The man on the motorcycle was frustrated, too: but for wholly different reasons.

He adored his job. He liked talking about it; he’d often change the subject, or tell a polite lie, when first asked, but he’d often, if pressed enough, tell his speakers that his job was akin to moving Fate’s falling dominoes a little bit, so that he wanted to happen did actually happen, usually seemingly as a string of bizarre yet unalerting coincidences. He loved his job, especially for those times when he could pull it off via careful, pondered string-pulling.

He was irritated, of course, because no string he pulled allowed him to stop this upheaval, and every man his employer sent him to handle the job ended up unceremoniously dead.

He had to do this job himself, for the first time in years, a thing that did its part in irritating him to no end. At least he enjoyed killing, those times when the night was deep and moonless and hid secrets so well.

He sped up a little bit, despite the thick fog.)