The Fugitive

There's a fugitive loose. And this town ain't big enough for the both of us.

He's armed (in fact, he's got a lot of them) and he's dangerously disgusting and despicable.

On Saturday night I was driving to meet friends for dinner. It was when I was reaching to get something out of my purse that I noticed him (let's call him "Hannibal"). 

He was exiting my purse.  I screamed! 

He looked over his hideous shoulder and laughed, as he made his way toward the passenger door and down the side of the seat.

What could I do? I could not possibly get Hannibal out of the car! I had no weapons. I had no armor. All I had was my script and character shoes.

So I continued to the restaurant. I managed to form my body into the shape of a jellybean, with both feet on the seat, one arm wrapped around them protectively. My left hand did the steering (it was farthest from the crime scene) and the cruise control did the rest. 

One character shoe rested in my lap in the event of attack.

When I got to the restaurant, I grabbed my purse and emptied the contents onto the parking lot, checking for an accomplice. Hannibal was acting alone. I breathed a sigh of relief.

Then I looked through all the windows. "I'll be back." I threatened.

I went in the restaurant, with very little appetite. But a bottle of Bud Light helped me regain a smidgen of confidence. After the check came I said to my friends, "Let's go hunting!"

Unfortunately, it was dark and Hannibal is quite cagey. He was nowhere to be found.

The 25-minute ride home in my little Honda Civic was like a horror movie, knowing Hannibal was somewhere very close to me could attack at any time.  But in an attempt to outwit (and trap him), I put my to-go box on the back seat.  I imagined his hideous little jaws chewing away at the chicken.

Just to be safe, I resumed my fetal position in the driver's seat. I managed to get home without incident.

After pulling into the garage, I ran into the house and got my pot holder gloves. I lifted the styrofoam box off the back seat, laid it on the garage floor and slowly opened it.

Nothing but chicken.

I got the Raid. I practically emptied the contents of the Raid can into my car, spraying until the car looked like Linda's bathroom looks after one of her 35 minute showers. I screamed, "Go ahead, Hannibal...MAKE MY DAY!" and slammed the door shut.

The next morning I looked through all the car windows for Hannibal's remains. NOTHING.

I looked under the seats. I looked in the car pockets. I looked in the glove box.

He's a stinkin' Hannibal Houdini.

But I'm not done with him yet. I'll get his little reddish-brown-crunchy-ass one of these days... when he least expects it.

And in the meantime?

I'm really glad my car has cruise control.