A/N: I didn't actually write this story. My best friend, Emily, did, but her computer is being a poop and she doesn't have an account here. But this was too good not to share with the masses.
Tom Branson swore under his breath as he slammed on the brakes. Oh, how he hated trips in the country. In theory, they should have provided long stretches of open road to put the engine through her paces, but the reality was hampered by Mrs. Fitzgerald's dislike of speed and, more inescapably, the Irish sheep's dislike of confined fields. The daft creature was actually sleeping in the middle of the road. He honked the horn once, twice, gritting his teeth all the while. The sheep's only response was to lift its head, regard Branson coolly for a moment, then settle back down into a more comfortable position.
"Ah, for the love of…"
There was nothing for it. He got out of the car, feeling like a fool as he waved his arms and yelled, finally running the stupid beast off the road. As he settled back behind the wheel, he checked his watch briefly. That had cost them some time. He stepped on the accelerator, finally getting up to a decent speed when he felt the familiar thump of Mrs. Fitzgerald's umbrella rapping the back of his seat.
"Slow down, Branson! You'd think the very Devil was at our heels!"
He sighed. He should have known that was coming.
" Yes, ma'am. I only thought, with the trouble back there, and you wanting to arrive on time…"
"Yes, well, what would the point be if we're killed before we get there?" she demanded querulously, as if 25 mph on an empty road were the height of recklessness.
"Very good, ma'am," he sighed, as he reluctantly slowed to a snail's pace, yet again. 'I need to get another job…' he thought to himself.