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Jesus Took The Wheel? Should Have Tried Brakes.

A number of websites and media outlets are busily covering the story of fortunate lovers and now viral stars of the hour Arika Stovall and Hunter Hanks, whose unlikely survival of a brutal, high speed one vehicle accident has been described in outlets like CNN, Fox News, and others as “heartwarming,” “touching,” and “miraculous.”

It seems to me that that the true miracle is that Mr. Hanks who, according to Ms. Stovall, was careening down the highway at 85 miles an hour in a pickup truck, didn’t maim or kill any other innocent folks who were driving around them.

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“Three seconds. That’s how long we had from the moment we drifted off the road until the truck hit the pilar (sic) at 85mph. In three seconds Hunter had to handle a situation that would either kill us immediately or save our lives. He keeps beating himself up for my pain but he saved my life.”

Yep, heroic. But according to Ms. Stovall, her beau had help. Supernatural help.

“I’m overwhelmed at how little damage was done to Hunter and I in a wreck that should have chopped our bodies in half. I’m in awe of the presence of God in this entire situation. Every part of this experience we went through points directly to Him. The way God helped Hunter to respond exactly the way he did behind the wheel, spinning the truck exactly where it should have to be able to smash into the pilar directly in the middle of me and Hunter so we were both untouched…that doesn’t just happen. God doesn’t throw protection around like that for no reason”

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It seems to me that a truly wise god would have tapped the brakes once or twice before the apparently reckless Mr. Hunter lost control of his vehicle and plowed into an bridge abutment, or maybe spoken to him, in a thundering voice, “Yo, asshat–slow the hell down. What’s the hurry?  You’re going to hurt someone.”

And for Ms. Stovall I offer continued good luck: this douchebag nearly killed you once, let’s hope he doesn’t do better at it the next time.

Categories
Short/Micro/Flash Fiction

An Hour From Boise (another excerpt from an abandoned story)

Motorcycle_CopThere’s this pit of the stomach feeling, I know you know it, when you blaze over the crest of a slope on the highway with the Pogues blaring Streams of Whiskey from a dozen speakers and that big block Chevy 454 thundering backup, and the unmistakable profile of a Ford Police Interceptor crouches on the median like a sullen lion. There’s no time to brake, no place to go, the speedo jiggling somewhere north of ninety.  You reel it in causally, will he buy it that the beast got away from you—and your normally grandmother-like driving—and what about those hippie-dippy girls in the backseat, stinking of patchouli and peanut butter.  The pretty one, the one with the freckles in her cleavage and the ice blue eyes, is snoring like a drunk.  It’s likely she is, in fact, still drunk—and god knows what else.  You don’t even want to know what she’s got in her purse, or if she’s got a prescription for that, and if so, what for?  Maybe it won’t even matter.