wReckless Endangerment
I was driving my scooter home from the pizza parlor, feeling slightly drunk and stuffed to the gills. As I approached the underpass, an on-coming Mitsubishi Montero turned/swerved left immediately in front of me, crossing my lane. It crashed into the bridge-supports on my right just as I puttered past. I looked around to see if anyone else had witnessed the accident, but didn't see a soul.
Crap! I guess it's up to me to see if anyone is injured and call the cops.
I pulled my scooter over on to the sidewalk, and futzed with deploying the kickstand. I still saw no one around, and I sprinted over to the Montero. Going to the driver's side door, I noticed that the wrecked vehicle contained no occupants. Recalling what I'd learned from some First Aid/Safety Red Cross lecture many moons ago, I leaned through the window and turned off the car's ignition. As I pulled my head back out, I noticed some people grouped on the other side of the car and made my way over to them.
Holy crow! That guy looks like Cliff Clavin from Cheers! Fock, it IS him!
John Ratzenberger introduced himself as having also been a witness to the accident, and two of the other forgettable strangers grouped around him professed to be the driver and passenger of the Montero. One was a woman in her early forties, the other her son, who looked to be about fifteen. Are you all right? Yes, they said they were fine. What happened? Explanation was offered in the form of some vagaries about blood sugar and not paying attention and cell phones. Do you need any help? No, no, no, everything is fine.
John Ratzenberger grabbed my arm and pulled me aside. "Hey, buddy. Ahh, look...I was ahh, helping the lady out of the car a minute ago, and ahhh, that kid got out of the car." Yeah that was probably a good idea. Cars that have been in accidents sometimes leak gasoline. "Yeah well ahh, you see what he's wearing right now?" I looked over to see a fifteen-year-old in jean and a t shirt. It looked pretty normal. What's the big deal? "Well ahh, ya see he wasn't wearing THAT outfit when he got out of the car. He changed behind the ahhh, guardrail over there." I strolled over to the guardrail and looked behind it to see a discarded gimp-suit, straight out of Pulp Fiction's pawn shop.
I whipped my head around in time to see the woman and boy diving back into the Montero and putting foot to pedal. Crushed-in fender and all, they went zipping away down the street, only moments before cops and news vans begin pulling up and asking John Ratzenberger where the Malevolent Molesting Teacher had fled to with her latest victim.
I got back on my scooter and left.
♪"Wouldn't you like to get away..."♪
Crap! I guess it's up to me to see if anyone is injured and call the cops.
I pulled my scooter over on to the sidewalk, and futzed with deploying the kickstand. I still saw no one around, and I sprinted over to the Montero. Going to the driver's side door, I noticed that the wrecked vehicle contained no occupants. Recalling what I'd learned from some First Aid/Safety Red Cross lecture many moons ago, I leaned through the window and turned off the car's ignition. As I pulled my head back out, I noticed some people grouped on the other side of the car and made my way over to them.
Holy crow! That guy looks like Cliff Clavin from Cheers! Fock, it IS him!
John Ratzenberger introduced himself as having also been a witness to the accident, and two of the other forgettable strangers grouped around him professed to be the driver and passenger of the Montero. One was a woman in her early forties, the other her son, who looked to be about fifteen. Are you all right? Yes, they said they were fine. What happened? Explanation was offered in the form of some vagaries about blood sugar and not paying attention and cell phones. Do you need any help? No, no, no, everything is fine.
John Ratzenberger grabbed my arm and pulled me aside. "Hey, buddy. Ahh, look...I was ahh, helping the lady out of the car a minute ago, and ahhh, that kid got out of the car." Yeah that was probably a good idea. Cars that have been in accidents sometimes leak gasoline. "Yeah well ahh, you see what he's wearing right now?" I looked over to see a fifteen-year-old in jean and a t shirt. It looked pretty normal. What's the big deal? "Well ahh, ya see he wasn't wearing THAT outfit when he got out of the car. He changed behind the ahhh, guardrail over there." I strolled over to the guardrail and looked behind it to see a discarded gimp-suit, straight out of Pulp Fiction's pawn shop.
I whipped my head around in time to see the woman and boy diving back into the Montero and putting foot to pedal. Crushed-in fender and all, they went zipping away down the street, only moments before cops and news vans begin pulling up and asking John Ratzenberger where the Malevolent Molesting Teacher had fled to with her latest victim.
I got back on my scooter and left.
♪"Wouldn't you like to get away..."♪
