My wife and I were taking my mom to the base for her monthly shopping trip, when we cut off by another driver this how I saw the event unfolding.
I watched in amazement as my wife having been cutoff by another driver suddenly sunk her fingernails into the roof of the car and ripped open a hole, climbing onto the roof of the car. There was that, oh shit! moment as our Nissan van swerved into the next lane. I grabbed the steering wheel righting the cars direction, as I was doing that, I could see mom in the rearview mirror strapping on her crash helmet. The van’s momentum buckled briefly as my wife launched herself forward and landing on the car (a pale brown Ford mustang) ahead of us, resulting in a thunderous crashing before she took a deep breath and leap to the next car. A cavalcade of jetsam and flotsam bounced off the windshield…rearview mirrors, license plates, the occasional rear bumpers. I swerved to the the left then to the right evading the burning trail left behind by my wifes rampage. In the distance through the fire and smoke I watched as she leaped from the last wrecked car slamming into the offending (a beige 1974 Plymouth Roadrunner) whose undercarriage hung so low that sparks poured out thick enough to be mistaken for an industrial fourth of July display. They rolled together several yards before crashing into a boarded up outlet store, one of many that dotted the side of the highway. I pulled our van to the shoulder of the road looking into the burning wreckage, so hot I could see the surrounding pavement being hungrily licked by the flames. I could make out the silhouette of a figure stepping through the smoke and fire. My wife stepped of the conflagration, proudly holding aloft the headlight of her prey… and this is why I don’t make comments while my wife drives.