I have no clever title …

Yeah, so the flurries of Tweets last night proved to me that I cannot type nearly as fast as I would like on a neato little keyboard.

Last night I was involved in a brief but intense high speed chase, and it was one of those terrifying, exhilarating experiences I hope to never repeat again.

So I’m coming home from my sister’s house in Western BFE at no o’clock in the morning. I’m reclining in the passenger seat because I am just beat from doing nothing all day. Doug is driving, because it’s illegal to recline and drive, though I understand there’s a petition drive underway to get the Sleepies are Drivers, Too! bill on the ballot.

We pull up to the red light at the intersection and I hear a crash. To me, this is bad because we’re not in my not-yet-paid-off vehicle, but my sister’s brand new not-even close-to-being-paid-off vehicle. I sit up and notice that the little car in the left turn lane has been pushed nearly into the intersection. D is already yelling out the window that he saw the whole thing and he’ll stick around to be a witness.

Now, normally I’m all about not getting involved, but as I’m not behind the wheel, I can either stick around and give moral support, or walk home. As I’m also lazy, you can guess my decision. As D pulls off the road to get out of the way, the large pickup truck (you knew it had to be a pickup truck) is backing up and pulls along side the car he’s just plowed into. The Driver of the truck is not the brightest blub in the box, actually hesitates about taking off, pulls a few hesitant maneuvers and finally decides that in his condition, he’s better off not being anywhere around the scene when the cops show up,  and slowly, deliberately leaves, as if no one will notice the pickup truck with front end damage non-chalantly leaving the scene of an accident.

D is on him like smell on bums and I’m on the phone with 911.

Interesting side note – we were not toodling around in my snappy little Suzuki Aerio. We were in my visiting sister’s Nissan Murano which is not exactly known for it’s sharp turns or rabbit-like speed off the line, yet D is now channeling #2 and takes off after the guy. This is terrifying to me as I would never take a residential turn at 40, and yet, D the professional driver, does with the sort of ease that is a little distressing.

The guy’s first mistake lets me know he wasn’t a local because he tried escaping down a dead end street. He’s driving through the residential streets making stupid turns and basically getting himself turned around while I’m on the phone with 911 and Doug is talking to the guy like the vehicles are wired with a comm-system. The chase lasted the course of maybe six blocks, and we crossed over a few streets more than twice. The dispatcher on the other end of my phone is following my street directions and relaying them to the six  – count them six (6) – police cars (Royal Oak isn’t exactly hopping at 1 in the morning) trying to pinpoint our location.

Five minutes into the chase, and the guy makes a fatal error – he turns down a very short residential street that dead ends into the railroad tracks. I snicker.

Tourists.

He turns into a driveway and shuts his lights off. This is smart. He leaves his foot on the brake. This is stupid. We can see him lit up like a Christmas tree down the street that isn’t lit with arc sodiums, making his taillights broadcast his exact  wherabouts. I merely get out and point. I feel like a Pod Person.

J’accuse, indeed.

We tell the dispatcher where the truck is hiding and within seconds SEVERAL cop cars pull up. We are thanked for being diligent in our chasing because most people wouldn’t bother (heh) and D fills out a witness statement. The driver actually tries telling cops that he had just arrived home (sure) and no he hadn’t been drinking (really?) but Royal Oak’s Finest weren’t born yesterday. The bad man is cuffed and given a sobriety test just as the late freight passes behind on the tracks.  The noise could have done nothing for his balance. We go back to the scene of the accident just to let the victim know that the guy’d been caught, but the little black car with the smashed in tail lights was gone.

I surmise that the truck driver was drunk and the little black car had no insurance, or at least probably wasn’t street legal or well past curfew or smuggling midgets. It was something.

As far as I’m concerned, it more than makes up for last weekend’s debacle and I rather like having a little Karma in the bank.

Speaking of which, I may get my car back this evening.

I’m all dun wif Kar Dwama now. Let someone else have a little fun.