We’ve made it to the staging area, in the Dallas-Fort Worth Mega-City, on a wing and a prayer. Highway 287, AKA Fury Road, was a tumultuous and harrowing experience; two mutants from Southern Oklahoma were on the warpath, doing their very best to kill us and loot our bodies on the side of the road like Wasteland Vultures.

The Mad Max re-enactment started on the way out of Wichita Falls when a red Ford pick-up scooted around me and slammed on the brakes as the road narrowed due to some strategically-placed construction barrels. This was done hastily, and with intent; there was plenty of room to brake and slide in behind me, but getting in front of me required that we all pump the brakes. Nice.

I made the decision to get around them as we headed out onto the open road, but the red truck wasn’t having any of that. He sped up and got in front of me, and we soon found out why: he was, evidently, following a silver-gray Kia Sedona, the driver of which was using the divots and the grooved pavement in the center lane for navigational assistance. As soon as they were in front of us, they reduced speed, forcing me and several others around them-again.

This did not sit well with the Oklahoma Duo, and they spent a lot of time trying to get back up to us, and cut us off, again. By now, the red Ford had taken the lead, forcing the slaloming Kia to try, try, try, and then finally make the decision to wedge themselves between me and the red truck, also again.

At this point, my middle index finger was stuck in the “up” position, but they were assiduously avoiding looking at me. It’s a shame, too, because, had any of them been lip readers, they would have assumed that I was a sailor or a dockworker of some kind.

It became comedic, frankly. We passed someone on the right, who was driving well under the speed limit, trying like hell to get away from our pursuers, and the red Ford revved up behind this person, trying to force her into the right hand lane. We watched as she started to slowly drift over, and then swerved back into the lane…and then drift over a bit, and then swerved back again… she did this three times, and then finally slid over with deliberate care. You could see the red Ford seething as it roared by her.

There were other drivers, too, doing their best to counter the grievous fog of assholery this duo of Oklahoman residents were giving off. No one gave them the road, forcing them to grouse and gripe as they wove in and out of the regular flow of traffic. We finally parted ways with them in Decatur, a place known for the quality and quantity of its speed traps, and I have never prayed to the traffic gods as hard as I was praying right then for a deliverance to be visited upon them. Here’s to you, Swervvy McGee and Micropenis Compensation Trucker. I hope you get what you need out of life.

Tomorrow, we brave the airport. We have all tested negative for the COVID. One hurdle down.