There I am, on the way home from San Antonio. It’s after dark, in the Hill Country, and I’ve already seen way too many Whack-Frack* deer on the side of the highway, so I’ve got my hi-beams on, looking for eyeshine on the median, and on each side of US 281.
Behind me is a blue luxury sedan who seems to be somewhat irritated by the fact that I am doing the speed limit, but won’t pull into the left lane and just go the hell around me.
Pretty soon I see that tell-tale glow off in the brush to the right, but it isn’t moving, so I ease on over into the left lane and start checking to make sure there aren’t any culverts in the median in case I have to juke that way.
Apparently blue luxury believes that this is just one step too far on my part, because I hear the downshift, and watch an expensive blue streak pass me (unlawfully) on the right.
Seems like the God of Deer is a Law And Order type, because as soon as Little Blue violates the Texas Transportation Code, the deer startles her happy little butt onto the highway.
I tap my brakes and whip in behind the sedan just in time to hear the car announce “WHACK!” (authoritatively); the driver shriek “FRACK!” (statistically), and watch the ex-deer high-speed pirouette towards the centre median.
Since my entire world has just gone slow-motion Panic Brake-Light Red, I slide left, punch the Go-Pedal, and — rather gracefully, if I do say so myself — thread the needle between the front of the luxury wreck and the counter-clockwise spinning 80+ pounds of insurance claim.
I get stopped, activate my hazard lights, and back up to the very expensive pile of parts now parked way out in the shoulder, get out and trot up to the driver’s side window.
Inside, I see what looks like — under all the dust from an airbag deployment — a teenage boy. He is locked onto the steering wheel, and looks rigid, so I try the door. Nope, locked. I cop-rap the window, he startles loose from his panic and opens the door.
“Got that ass, huh?”
“I-I-I- think I … hit something!”
I look towards the median. Not a twitch from the carcass. “I think you’re right.”
“OhMyGawd, I think I hit a deer! Did I kill it?”
“Don’t worry about it. They’re making more.”
He looks at me, and I see the gulping start. I point towards the passenger side floorboard, “If you’re going to yark, do it that way.” He flops sideways and start noisily getting reacquainted with his supper. I scan the headboard, spot a red button, and hit it. I am rewarded with a couple of tones, and then a professionally calm voice announces, “[Luxury Car] Assistance, is there an emergency?”
Bedamned, she doesn’t have an accent. “Yes. The blue [Luxury Model] this thing is attached to just kinetically interfaced with a deer on US 281 in [County] County, Texas.”
“I understand. Are you the driver?”
“Nope, he’s busy stress barfing. Hey, Scooter! If you taste rich Corinthian leather, swallow hard. That’ll be the seat, and you don’t want to puke that up.”
There are faint overtones of amusement, “Yes, sir, and what agency are you with?”
“Oh, I’m not. The scene is about 8 miles north of [City], on the northbound side. Run a DPS trooper out here, and probably an ambulance — he’s got airbag injuries.”
“Yes, sir. And your name is?”
“Nah, I’m good.”
“Sir.” The tone is Professionally Stern and No-Nonsense, “I need your name for the report.”
“Oh, my bad. First name ‘Millicent’ last name ‘Bystander’. Common spelling.”
“Yes, sir. ‘M’ ‘I’ ‘L’ … wait a minute.”
“You done puking, Scooter?” A shaky thumb appears, before he wipes his mouth. I look back towards my car, “Outstanding.”
“Sir.”
“Talk to the nice lady until the Woo-Woo Crew get here.”
He nods, but the disembodied voice is getting rather more insistent: “SIR.”
I wave to the kid, “Toodles.”
“SIR. SIR! SIR!”
And how was y’all’s evening?
LawDog
*The colloquial term for “Motor Vehicle Accident Involving Livestock or Game” amongst the children when I was still in Law Enforcement. The second word in the phrase isn’t “Frack”, but I’m trying to keep the old blog PG13. If you can’t guess, it rhymes with “Duck”.