Bang
Topic: Road Rage
My muffler blew up. I am not exaggerating, I am not making this up.

I'd planned to take the car in to the garage for some exhaust work anyway, so I'm not upset. I was pretty sure the muffler was going to be swapped out anyway. But there's been trouble with the car starting in damp weather lately.

So the other day at work, as I was getting ready to leave, and the engine was complaining about turning over, it backfired a couple of times. Nothing major, just a couple of burps.

Then, like a burp from the diaphragm of Beelzebub, it went BANG! Nearby cars with alarm systems started... well, alarming. Smoke rose from the back of the car in light wisps, and I smelled gasoline.

So I tried again.

It backfired a few more times, and people came to see what idiot was blowing up his car, or perhaps firing random shots toward the nearby housing. I got an offer for a ride home, but I turned it down. Never abandon your vehicle until all hope is lost, and I still harbored hope.

Evidently, Hope wasn't doing much else at the time, so she dried off my electrical lines and the car started. I drove home, noticing how much louder the car had got, and fearing that the backfire had dislodged the exhaust line from the engine. When I got home, I looked under the car at the exhaust line.

It looked like someone had put a cherry bomb into my muffler. It had exploded.

It turns out that the problem was that my electrical lines had got old enough that they shorted a bit when they got damp. It's been humid and/or rainy here for a while, so it acts up in that kind of weather. Once the engine heats up, the lines dry, and all is well again. The auto place is going to fix it on Thursday. I'll drop it off in the morning, and have it back in the evening, in time to go back to work.

This is the kind of thing you have happen that you say "Later, we'll all laugh at this." And it's costing me money, but I'd planned on spending it on this kind of thing anyway. The detonated muffler was just a bit of punctuation in the saga of automotive repair. And as I said, it was going to get replaced anyway.

And it was so worth seeing the expressions on the faces of passersby when that thing went off.

I'm Really Getting Fed Up With This.
Topic: Road Rage
Yesterday I got home from an errand or two, and one of the road work trucks was parked in my driveway. I ended up parking on the street.

Granted, a cop there said he'd have them move it. But I decided that I'd be cooperative, because the sooner they finish, the happier I'll be. He assured me that they'd only be a couple of weeks more.

Which means, if Tech Time applies, it will be five weeks.* With any luck, Rain-Wario will have found something more interesting by then, that has nothing at all to do with me.


*Tech Time (or, more properly, "Technician Time") exists in an alternate universe, infringing upon our own only at locations where some form of technical work is being performed. The time in the alternate reality slows drastically at these points of juxtaposition, but this change has a simple conversion coefficient; simply multiply the technician's estimated time by two of the units used to measure it, and then add one unit. So in the case of the street work, two weeks equals (2* 2 weeks)+1 week = 5 weeks. Had he said "it'll only be fourteen days" the result would have been (2*14 days) + 1 day = 29 days. The actual length, therefore, depends on the unit used to measure, indicating that time is easily warped by perception, proving further that Einstein didn't know the half of it.

They're Back
Mood:  irritated
Now Playing: with the idea of assault rifles.
Topic: Road Rage
Yesterday, at 07:10 (local time), Jackhamma was at it again, right outside my house. I was awake at the time, but my wife was not. Well, not for very long, anyway.

It only went on for a few minutes (about 30, actually), but it was enough to interrupt everyone's sleep for about 8 jillion miles. My wife woke up and got ready for work early.

Later, after she'd left, I went into my bedroom for my diurnal repose, and was greeted by the stink of diesel exhaust. The wind was just right, and the window fans circulating air were also circulating the exhaust from the road construction bastards. I had to close all my windows, leaving only 1 open and blowing air out, to clear the stink of diesel exhaust from my room.

So far, I've had to contend with noise pollution, air pollution, and today we need to take an alternate route into our own street just to get home. If it weren't for a tiny, one-lane access road to the cemetery next to our home, it would be impossible to get in and out.

The back-hoes and other equipment even use our driveway to turn around.

What I want to know is, what the Hell was wrong with the damned streets in the first place? I saw them dig one area up, and water began shooting out of the ground! They've got all these new pipes and stuff they're laying, and I guess that's why they're doing it, but they're wrecking the entire street! And they don't re-pave the whole thing, they just repave where they dug up, so it's all uneven with man-made chuck holes! It's like driving on the surface of the moon, after it's been paved, but not leveled.

I went out earlier, and asked if I could keep a section of the old street that they'd dug up. The worker looked at me funny, and asked what I'd want it for, mentioning the possibility of sentimental value. I told him no, not that. I just want it to chuck it at the head of the first city planner I see.

He said "no."

Jack-Hamma
Topic: Road Rage
I can't sleep.

Here's why.

This picture is taken from my front porch. It's that close to my home. Normally, the sounds of traffic are bad enough. This beast shakes my entire home, turning my environment into a vibrating, noisy rendition of Pachelbel's "Road Construction in D-Minor." In Sensurround and full Vox Dei. With feeeelin'.

I sleep during the day.
Not today, I don't.

I work at night.
Not tonight, I... uhm... well, yah... yah, I do.

Gonna be a long 24 hours. If it doesn't stop by tomorrow, I'm getting a hotel room for a couple of days. This is smeggin' ludicrous.

"That's pretty dangerous; building a road in the middle of the street."
-Kermit the Frog

The Life You Save
Topic: Road Rage
He pulled on to the entry ramp of the Florida freeway from the main street. He remembered that it was properly called an 'acceleration ramp' but he didn't know why, since only a fool would actually speed up while on it. It was a curve, and he could feel the effects of the turn while using the ramp. He could lose control. Best to stay below 50.

For that matter, he thought, 50 was too high. He didn't want to be going too fast when he got to the freeway, or he'd have to merge at a dangerous speed. He might not be able to stop in time if another car came behind him, or veered into his lane. Best to be going 40. Or 35.

He heard someone behind him leaning on their car horn. He looked up, and could see the angry driver's face in his rear-view. He was shouting something and gesturing rudely. What a jerk. People like that shouldn't be on the road.

Ignoring the blaring horn behind him, he slowed to 35.

He got to the freeway itself, and saw an opening right away. He signalled (you can't be too careful), and pulled into the traffic lane. Almost immediately he heard the sound of rubber protesting against pavement behind him. He looked up to the rearview again, and could see a pileup beginning.

It was nothing less than spectacular. A car had swerved as it approached behind him, and traffic behind it had not been able to stop in time. At least three cars were already involved, and there may have been more. The car that had been behind him was careening wildly, trying to avoid the tangle, but it was hopeless. He felt very lucky to have avoided it himself... if he'd been just a second or two slower, he might not have.

"They shouldn't have been going so fast." He admonished the pileup behind him. "Tch-tch." He looked before him again, and noticed that he was no longer on the freeway itself, but in the break-down lane.

He gasped and swung the wheel around hard, but nothing happened. He realized suddenly that he was no longer moving. He looked outside the driver's side window, and saw several vehicles on the other side of the median, pointing the other way, and not moving at all. But they were blurred, like they were in motion. They simply weren't.

Looking behind him, he could see the auto pileup, still in progress, but frozen in time. One vehicle was actually airborne, hovering three feet above the ground as if daring gravity to notice.

He gasped again as he heard a tapping on the window. Looking through the glass, he could see a youth with light, sandy, shoulder length hair, a deep tan, and deeper brown eyes. The boy, not more than twenty years old, was politely tapping on the window, making a 'roll down' motion with his other hand.

The shocked driver obliged. A mellow, courteous voice said "Sir, could you please step outside your car a moment? This won't take long."

Stunned into obeisance, the driver pressed the release of his safety belt, unlocked his door and pulled the door handle. The door latch popped, and he gently swung it open...

...and the youth suddenly yanked it open himself. He reached in, grabbed the driver, and jerked him out of the car. Crying out in surprise, the driver grabbed for the steering wheel, seat, door frame... anything he could. But he was already outside the vehicle. The youth held him high off the ground, with almost no effort. Frantically flailing his limbs, the driver suddenly felt his stomach float, and realized he was being dropped. His crotch landed squarely on his assailant's upraised knee, and the driver could no longer breathe as his testicles were slammed between a leg and his own pelvis.

He collapsed to the ground, gasping, and rolled over onto his back. His hands were tucked protectively into his groin, and he curled into a fetal position, waiting for the next blow.

Nothing happened.

He looked up, blowing through pursed lips to make the pain go away (that never worked, but he did it anyway), where he could see the youth holding his hand out to him. His breathing slowly returning to normal, he shied back from the offer for help, shaking his head and tightening into a smaller ball.

"It's okay... I won't do that again. I promise." Something in the boy's tone made the driver reconsider, and he hesitantly took the hand. The boy's powerful muscles pulled the driver up, and he was on his feet again, and recovering. "You all right now?" the youth asked. The driver nodded with relief.

The youth punched him in the face so hard that for a moment, the driver thought a car had hit him.

Cowering, raising his arms defensively, he began to shriek for help.

This went on for a long while, until he realized nobody would come to help him. Nobody could hear him. They were all frozen in time... everyone but he and this crazed, but sincere, assailant.

Who was no longer hitting him.

The driver stopped screaming, and looked up. The youth was now sitting on the road. "Have a seat. We need to talk." he ordered.

The driver obliged, sitting in his car. He closed and locked the door, and quickly rolled up the window. He closed his eyes, and leaned back in relief... he'd escaped. He expected to hear pounding on his door and window any moment. He peeked through the raised glass...

...and nobody was there.

Puzzled, he gaped at the empty pavement. He nearly jumped out of his clothes when he heard the boy's voice right beside him. "I'm not out there any more."

Looking to the passenger seat, he boggled again. "Look, I'm done hitting you. Now I need to explain something to you."

"Wh-wh-wha? Explain what?"

"You're an idiot."

"What!?"

The passenger looked behind him. "See that pileup? It's your fault. You came onto the freeway at a speed that made you a road hazard, and they had to slam on the brakes to avoid hitting you."

"I was going at a safe speed!" he protested.

"Yeah... safe in a city. Or a country road. But not on the freeway. They couldn't safely stop in time. On top of that, you're supposed to yield to traffic that's already on the freeway, not cut in front of them like a wall on wheels."

"They were going too fast!"

"They were going the speed limit." the boy answered. "And you suddenly were there, in front of them. The driver of the vehicle that's on its roof... he was going to his girlfriend's house. He has a ring in his pocket. He was going to ask her to marry him. That's the car that tried to avoid you. The driver slammed on the brakes, cut the wheel, and rolled over. He got hit by the next vehicle behind him. When the car flipped, the roof couldn't support the weight of the car and it collapsed. If his neck snapping hadn't killed him, the crushed skull would have. Then the car behind you on the ramp hit him, and just added to the damage."

The driver was breathing heavily now, sweating, listening with horror.

"His girlfriend is pregnant." the youth continued. "They both knew. They'd planned on getting married anyway, but he was going to make it official. Planned to go on one knee, and pledge his everlasting love to her and their baby. They hadn't decided on a name yet. His son will grow up never knowing his daddy."

"How... how can you know all this? How can you do all this?" the driver gasped, and suddenly, they were outside of the car. They were standing next to the vehicle that was floating in mid-air. With the same fascination of a person watching a train wreck, he looked through the glass. The driver, a woman in a business jacket and skirt, was screaming. Her arm was covering her eyes. A coffee cup, its contents suspended in a ribbon of light brown, was hovering next to her head. He looked behind the pile-up. A tractor-trailer was approaching, less than thirty yards away. It might be able to dodge the accident...

"Look." the youth said, pointing into the shattered glass of the overturned vehicle's windshield.

The driver looked.

The body's hair was a sandy brown, what little of it wasn't a sickening red. The skin on the limp arms was deeply tanned. The face, crushed, was just barely recognizable, but he knew it instantly.

He looked at the ghost standing next to him, and saw him nodding. "Yeah." the spectre said. "That's me. You killed me with your idiotic notions about what safe driving really is." He sighed. "At least it was quick. Intensely painful, but very quick."

"No! No, I... I..."

"I wanted to show you this, and let you see for yourself how stupid you really are, before I move on to whatever happens next."

"Th-that's why you stopped me? And hit me? To teach me a lesson?"

"Well, actually, it's just why I stopped you. Hitting you was purely selfish. I'm dead, but I felt so much better after dropping you on your 'nads, that I just knew decking you would be even more satisfying. As for teaching you a lesson, I think you're going to be stupidly unaware of the people around you for the rest of your life. But you might learn something from this, and the life I save by showing you this might be my son's."

"I..."

"Don't apologize. It'll make me want to hit you again. The only reason you're sorry is because I stopped you and showed you this. I don't want you to be sorry, I want you to learn. Before you kill anyone else. Lord knows how many other poor souls are going to be maimed or killed from this mess you were about to just drive away from. Lord knows how many you'll kill in the future."

The driver closed his eyes and took a shuddering breath. He tried to think of something to say, something that wouldn't get him hit again. Part of him wanted to get hit again... he needed the penalty. He needed to know he'd been punished for his actions. He wanted to make it right... but how do you make it right when someone is dead?

He opened his eyes and said "I... where am I?" He looked around him.

He was alone, standing next to his car in a parking lot. The breeze made his shirt collar flap a bit. It was cold. He looked around, and realized he was outside a donut shop. He heard a paper coffee cup rattling in the wind near his feet. He looked down at it, reading the print on its side. "Tim Horton's?" he wondered aloud. Glancing around him, he spied a newspaper box. He trotted over to it and looked at the paper's masthead through the display window.

It was in French. He couldn't read the language, but he saw the word "Quebec" in one of the articles. "I'm in... Canada?" He looked around wildly. "How am I going to get back to Florida?!" It slowly sank in that he was lost, and a long way from home.

But not half as far away from home as a certain sandy-haired young man, he realized.

He also realized he was holding something. He looked down. In one hand, he had an open pouch of Cracker Jack... the familiar sailor in dress-blues saluting him, his faithful dog Bingo sitting next to him. Confused, he looked at the object in his other hand.

It was the prize. The red and white paper that had always excited him with curiosity and wonder, as a child, and even into his adult years, tickled his imagination yet again. It looked a bit larger than normal, but it would still easily fit into the pouch. With shaking hands, he tore open the paper and pulled out his prize.

It was a rectangle of firm plastic. It was familiar to him. It was printed with his own photograph on it.

It was his driver's license.