A Roadtrip a Breakneck Speeds. ACT I: Slippery when wet.

Speeding down the superhighway, at a rate that was difficult to manage safely, I found myself intensely keen of my surroundings. Almost a hyperawareness of the minutiae. A screaming projectile, piloted in the dark unfamiliar South, with absence of safety and decorum. Reaching speeds considered by most to be inappropriate under the conditions, the dull hum, mesmerizing and frantic, I noticed something shooting across the bow. Screeching brakes, not the anti-lock type, but the one's that would throw you into a power slide on a perpendicular path headed for the startling mirage.

"What the hell was that?", I said aloud, I think. At least I know I thought it. No one every says such things to themselves.

It was an armadillo. I've never seen one in the wild, except those on display, but thats what it was. I saw the coat of armor. What else could it have been? Digging into the frequently open vaults of the mind, the familiar dark places, I realized that it indeed was not at all an armadillo. I had crossed the Mason-Dixon Line but I couldn't be that far south. A wombat. That's it. It must have been a wombat. I'm sure of it.

Second guessing my first sighting of the impulsive nocturnal behavior of the armadillo, I mean wombat, the prudent choice for the moment would be a stop at the first available greasiest of spoons. The circular corner booth is best, a full view of all the characters in the play unfolding before me. Not a dress rehearsal, but opening night with the fervor of anticipation for the red and apparently heavy curtains to whisk effortlessly open. Once again intensely keen to the minutiae of the moment I could see beyond the set and into the dark allure of the backstage preparations.

Stepping out from behind the counter, which serves as a barrier from the theatrics of the stage, on a direct path to the circular corner booth, the waitress arrived and directly stated that she was my server this evening. I know I didn't say waitress aloud, I'm sure of it. No one every says such things to themselves. Not at all what she appeared to be, milling about behind the counter, my attention focused across the cheap speckled vintage formica. My view had been distorted by the actors front and center, difficult to anticipate what would debut from stage left. Postioned before me, previously elevated from behind the barrier, I heard the tall twang of the local vernacular.

What can I git for you?

What are you serving?

What do you like?

What are the Specials?

Check the board.

I can't decide.

I'll decide for you.

Exit stage left. The set had changed abruptly while peering backstage and with a quick costume change the server reappeared again from behind the counter bearing a tray filled with unknown delicacies.

I've decided to take that with me.

Checking the GPS, I was indeed traveling south. Acellerator pressed to the floor, speeding once again down the highway I reached for the unknown speciality, meticulously packaged by the server, only to find that the contents were unexpectedly raw. Much like the inside of an armadillo's articulating protective shell providing a glimpse into the perverse and vile innards of the startling mirage encountered before.

As the glowing dashed lines of the highway pass, blurring into a solid streak attributed to breakneck speeds, no longer startled by inward glimpses of raw armadillo, I pressed forward as the witching hour approached.

Pupils constricted, in the distance, to the south, an object again begins to cross the bow.

Baring instinctual responses, my foot eased off the brakes, barrelling dangerously forward with only the thin windscreen as my chaperon.