The thing about rush hour is that it proves itself to be anything but a rush.

Carriage after carriage pumps bright scarlet flags high in impatience. Hand-held honkers, like that of a band, are decked out in exquisite, dented brass. Each rage-filled squeeze of the dusty rubber bulb on the end contributes to quite the symphonic score of dissonant squeals. The sheer amount of air being thrust through each reed could give breath to a dying man and still have some left over.

Voices boom out curse after curse, the more desperate resorting to blasphemies like,

“I hope your goat becomes carnivorous!” and,

“May coyotes consume every last chicken you possess!” Every new threat layers on top of one another, each threat more twisted and cruel than its predecessor.

And yet, no one is moving in the slightest. Traffic is completely stopped, and the horses are getting rather restless; most irritated. Missiles — pesky flies — catapult onto steed and man alike from any and all directions. The stench wafting from the business end of the wearisome, harassed creatures is enough to make many a man’s eyes swelter with sworn-off tears. If a highfaluting aristocratic lady were to enter the square, why, she’d faint within seconds in the restrictive fist of her whalebone corset.

Rush hour is truly not for the _faint_ of heart.