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Tuesday, March 8, 2011

Friday night Fracas

Sometimes, it just takes a moment for a day to go right in the shitter. My Friday night was just such an occasion.

We wrapped up our game night (Rogue Trader this time) with the usual reluctance and cliffhanger ending, with just enough suspense to make things interesting until next time. I’d been running the game, so I gladly tagged in to hold Little Danger and get him into sleepy mode so I could put him in his crib.

I sat on the couch, Little Danger in arms, while Wifefish played gracious hostess and jabbered in deep conversation with our friends on the front porch. Sitting peacefully, I heard a THWACK only slightly lower in decibels than Marvin the Martian’s “Earth-shattering Kaboom”. Moments later, Wifefish runs through the house, saying “My car was just hit!”

I put Little Danger down oh-so-gently on the couch, gave him a toy, and hotfooted it out the door. Yep, her car was smacked. Ruffstuff said “It was a white truck.”

I asked “Which way?” and he pointed down the street.

The offending vehicle had sped away, and I could see it off in the distance. I pulled out my cellphone, jumped in my car, and hauled ass down the street, adrenaline slamming into my bloodstream like heroin into Charlie Sheen. Tallyho the fox.

It bears mentioning that I have a loaner car right now, as my van had a mishap when the axle BROKE IN HALF a couple weeks ago. Fortunately, that model has a recall for rear axle problems that “could lead to breakage”, so I don’t have a repair bill. Anyhow, said loaner is a big white Mercury Grand Marquis. It has a big V-8 in it, and bears a striking resemblance to a cop car when it comes up behind you at twenty miles per hour over the speed limit late at night.

I ended up behind the guy pretty quickly, and dialed our 911 dispatch to report the particulars. He squirreled around on back streets before finally pulling in to the local Taco Bell. I rolled behind him to get the plate number, then drove to a nearby lot where I could see him. He got out of his truck, wobbled to the fence, and took a leak on said fence. The guy was obviously as wasted as Lindsey Lohan on a 3 day Rio bender.

I actually ended up flagging down a cop on my own while the dispatcher fiddled around asking me questions, which doesn’t particularly fill me with confidence in case of a real emergency. I pointed out the offender, and then got back in my car where the heater was nice and warm. Standing barefoot in a t-shirt in the cold rain=chilly Dangerboy.

I called Wifefish on the cellphone, and let her know I’d bagged the DUI for the local constabulary. I also gave her the play-by-play as I watched COPS: the live show. To say the guy failed the sobriety check is an understatement of gargantuan proportions, like saying politicians are a little loose with the truth.

I met the cop back at our house, so he could take pictures of the damage el Drunko had caused. We had a pleasant chat session for a little bit; our hometown police are truly some of the finest. I’ve met most of them through one method or another, and they’re always friendly and courteous, unless you do something stupid. Then they courteously throw your ass in the back of the car for a short ride “downtown.” I resisted the urge to wave to the idiot in the back of the cruiser, and bid the officer a good, uneventful night.

The upside to a Friday night interruption is that the poor schlub got to spend the entire weekend in jail, no judge for his bail until Monday morning. I wonder if he ended up with a roommate named “Bubba.” He gets hit with a DUI, a hit and run, and probably public intoxication. I think they’re giving him a pass for pissing on the Taco Bell, because hell…who doesn’t?

Wifefish, almost actual size, points out the dangers of driving drunk.

So now in the aftermath, we have to pay a deductible which will then get reimbursed if the offender’s insurance card wasn’t drawn in crayon. We get to rock out another rental car while Wifefish’s poor little car gets the $6 Million Dollar Man treatment, without the bionic sound effects. And the cops in our little town get to know us a little better.

The score now stands at Dangerboy 2 vs DUIs 0. I could have had a third over the summer, but I didn’t call the cops…I was too busy laughing as the old fart drove down our street, drunk as the proverbial skunk, on a riding lawnmower. We keep it classy around here.

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