Because It's Backroads, By Cracky!

When we last convened, that little Morton Salt girl was seasoning Val's life with hypertension. Not a sprinkle, not a dash, not a pinch. A truckload! Like treating the roadways during an ice storm.

There were more details to yesterday's adventure. But since Val has no intention of garnering the reputation for writing the War, What is it Good For? War and Peace of blog posts, she held back.

The Pony and I left my sister the ex-mayor's wife's house and headed home. We were running late. I told The Pony I would pick up fast food for him so he wouldn't have to wait for me to warm the Easter feast leftovers. He's not a big fan of that food even when it's fresh. And he was starving because he didn't have a snack after school. Sis always offers him something, but he turns it down. He said that if I didn't mind, he would like McDonald's. It's on the way.

They have this new wacky two-lane drive-thru that I can't figure out. How do the workers know which line is which, and which car is next? It's dark magic, as The Pony would say. So I ordered, and pulled around to the pay window. I forked over the money and pulled forward. The cars behind me sorted themselves into the single line for the window.

A big black truck pulled alongside, like it was going past us drivers-thru, to the exit. It stopped just a bit ahead of T-Hoe. Right in the traffic lane for people leaving the parking lot. A large man got out of the passenger side. He had a shaved head. He looked like a big bloated Uncle Fester, but in jeans and a t-shirt, not a long black hooded robe with a rope belt. He walked around the back of that truck and toward T-Hoe. Suddenly he came a tapping, him not one for gently rapping, tapping on my passenger door. "It's some weird dude! Look!" I muttered. "Wonder what he wants me for?"

I rolled down the window. Yes. I did. This is Backroads. Not the city.

"You have a bolt in your tire."

"Oh, I know. I just found out ten minutes ago. Thank you, though."

"I didn't want you to have a blow-out on the highway."

"Okay. Thanks."

Big Jeaned Uncle Fester went back around his truck and climbed in. Just a Good Samaritan, looking out for the safety of a total stranger.

Which is more than Hick bothered to do, according to Sis this morning when I sent her a text detailing the encounter.