Six hours, twenty-four minutes and fifteen seconds... six hours, twenty-four minutes and sixteen seconds... six hours, twenty-four minutes and seventeen seconds...

Ruben barely blinked as the red Chrysler rolled through the toll gates. The clink of the coins sounded distant and tinny. Somewhere in the back of his head a pressure began mounting.

Six hours, twenty-five minutes...

A pickup came to a temporary halt, its engine idling. The driver fumbled for change and banged his elbow on the horn.

Behind the pickup, a woman slammed on her brakes as she saw the red tail lights. She had been expecting a smooth transition through the toll gate. Her children were screaming about a dropped Bratz doll. The tyres screeched and her car swerved, just scraping the pickup's bumper bar.

Within seconds the burly man in the pickup had poured himself out of his vehicle like molten lead, fury rising through his thick body. He glared at the woman who was desperately winding down her window, the children screaming all the louder because of the slight bump.

Six hours, twenty-five minutes and ten seconds...

Ruben's chin slipped off his palm and he looked with a dazed interest as the man brought down a crowbar on the woman's family car.

He blinked again, disinterested although he knew he should probably call the supervisor.

Glass sprinkled on to the road. Obscenities flew through the afternoon air.

Ruben wondered how hot it was outside his booth.

The temperature gauge on the pickup spiked at the thought, and its engines revved even though there was no longer a driver in the seat. Exhaust blew backward, there was a change in gears. Behind the pickup, the man holding the crowbar turned around, his face contorted with anger.

The pickup skidded backward, the tyres burning fast in an acrid cloud. It lurched backward, barely held in place by the brakes. And then the brakes were released, the pickup leapt backward and crushed the man between the bumper bar and the woman's bonnet.

The woman's car revved forward, nearly cutting the man in half as it took control of itself, forcing the woman driver to cover her eyes and scream for help. It reversed and then spun around 180 degrees, facing the oncoming traffic. With another rev of the possessed engines the woman, her children and her battered family Ford sped towards a distant wave of five o'clock commuters.

Ruben Boscana rubbed his chin and turned his swivel chair around to look at the clock.

Six hours, twenty-seven minutes and fourteen seconds...

It was proving to be a long afternoon shift.

Ruben Boscana is a recent immigrant from Puerto Rico and has found himself a low-paying job manning a toll booth on a highway within the Los Angeles area. He hates his job and its monotonous routine, but he has little choice.

What he doesn't realise, though, is that his frustration has triggered his ubergene and his wildly creative and destructive personality has unleashed itself on vehicles in his area. He lives his fantasies through taking possession of cars and trucks and turning them on the world around them. He doesn't really accept that he is responsible for the death and destruction, though.

During one extended rampage through downtown Los Angeles, his possessed cars were opposed by Hella Chill and he had a glimpse of what he was capable of. The thought of him being responsible for the attacks sent him momentarily catatonic, and Hella Chill was able to restore order although neither she nor the FBI know that Ruben is responsible. They have suspected an uberhuman is behind the attacks and have dubbed 'him' Road Rage.

"This is my life, hombre: one second after another second after another second... and all I get is the fumes and abuse. It is a wonder no body goes loco around here."

Road Rage is able to temporarily take possession of vehicles in his immediate area, be they cars, trucks, motorbikes or even aeroplanes. Once in his control they tend to cause as much mayhem as possible and exhibit suicidal rage. He has never actively used his powers at this time, but it is possible and the consequences would be disastrous. Most of the time it is his subconscious which activates the 'road rage', generally brought about by extreme boredom.

Ruben Boscana is a Puerto Rican man in his early twenties. Everything about him is unremarkable even down to the clothes he wears. He is on the skinny side and his complexion is getting worse as he continues to live a lifestyle of poor diet and little exercise.

The vehicles he possesses tend to become demonic in appearance.