Short-short #4 ?

This one is thanks to Harley:

He looked round at the sound of the engine getting closer. The car closed rapidly, almost nudging his rear wheel before skimming past him. The driver cut back in front of him so near that he had to cut his speed drastically to avoid slamming into the car. His eyes narrowed behind his face shield and his lips pulled back from his teeth. The car accelerated and sped along the twisting road. He watched it reappear around a distant curve and shook his head.

He had heard stories of a maniac driver on this road; one who had been responsible for several severe accidents. One had left a young girl paralyzed from the waist down, and took her baby brother’s leg. Had he been a less skilled motorcyclist, he might have been sent off the road himself, or taken a nasty spill. He went on, his pale bike following the twists and turns of the road. He had an important appointment and didn’t want to be late.

Several kilometres later, he passed a small village. The car that had almost driven him off the road was parked next to the pub. He laughed softly to himself, unsurprised, and continued on his way. He drove to a scenic lookout and pulled over. There was time before his appointment to enjoy the view and take a short break. A car with a family drew up and parked. Five people climbed out. The adults arched their backs and stretched while the children ran about, shrill voices spiralling into the sky. He smiled at their antics. The parents seemed not to notice him and when one of the children pointed at the motorbike, the father glanced at it briefly, frowned, nodded and turned away again. He glanced at his watch. Time to go.

He climbed back onto his bike and smiled at the child, who smiled back. He headed back the way he had come. It was almost time. Ahead, he could hear the sound of the reckless car heading toward him, accelerating. He frowned. The car appeared around the corner. He swerved into its lane, flipping up his visor as he went. His reflection appeared in the windshield–black helmet with grinning skull, black leather and bone-pale motorcycle. The driver threw up his hands, his face a mask of terror, and the car veered toward the edge of the road and the steep drop beyond.

Death’s motorcycle passed through the car like smoke, his hand reaching into the driver’s chest to pull forth his soul. He dropped it almost immediately, revolted by the greasy feel, and watched it sink into the earth. He looked again at his watch. Best be going. There were more appointments to keep.