Chicken with Chickens

chickenAfter my defunct sleuthing attempt, I felt I needed some me time, so I left Rassmussen a note and went away for a few days.  I would have been better off never coming back.

Apparently my abrupt departure coincided with a spat between Rassmussen and his new lady friend.  Since I wasn’t there to console him, he decided to take a drive . . . in my second car, my little red baby, my Nissan 350Z . . . through the garage door!

It isn’t like he has a driver’s license, or even knew how to drive, to my knowledge, and the police reports and my neighbor’s flower garden concur.  Why he chose to drive when he could have flown is beyond me, and he isn’t talking.  All he will say is, “It serves you right!”

As if that explains anything.  I’m almost positive my insurance will cancel me over this.  The neighbor won’t even look at me, even though I have already replaced his bushes, mallard duck mailbox and most of the flowers.  I suspect it has something to do with the demise of his garden gnome—the one his grandmother made for him a week before she passed away.

Chicken with Chickens

What I have been able to piece together is Rassmussen was headed east on I-70 when he saw a convoy of semis hauling live chickens going the opposite direction.  He left my muffler and a few other bits and pieces in the median as he made a quick u-turn.  One of the truck drivers reported Rassmussen was laughing hysterically, the top down on the Nissan, his wings billowing in the wind.  He kept yelling, “Chicken with chickens!” while crossing back and forth beneath the trucks, zigzagging between, under and around each truck in my pride and joy.  Before this little joyride, I’d only driven her twice.  It seems so unfair.

Eventually, the inevitable happened, one of the trucks tipped, barely missing the car. The whole incident startled Rassmussen bad enough that he slammed on the brakes, causing the car to spin out of control and land nose down in a ditch.  The tipped truck slung chickens and crates asunder, including over my beautiful convertible.  If I had been there, I would have died on the spot from the sheer horror of it all. Hearing about it second hand was only slightly less demoralizing.

When I stopped crying, the officer charged with informing me drove me to my car.  The front end was smashed, the bottom destroyed and feathers, dents and droppings speckled the red finish, an unpleasant reminder of what had happened.