Smashed, Squashed, Splattered, Chewed, Chunked and Spewed by Carbuncle Lance

Author:Carbuncle, Lance [Carbuncle, Lance]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9780982280027
Publisher: Vicious Galoot Books Co.
Published: 2012-07-05T05:00:00+00:00

Route 41 is littered with trees, torn-up billboards, portions of roofs that were ripped from houses, playground equipment and a general South Florida sampling of debris. Thank God for the ATC. I never could have traveled by car, and walking would have taken too long. The three-wheeler easily climbs over all road obstructions and handles great even in the swampy ditches. Instead of driving until I see the Gulf of Mexico and then turning right, I decide to head north at the first major crossroad I hit.

A convenience store sits at the southeast corner of the intersection of Route 29 and the Tamiami Trail. I should say that a convenience store used to sit at the corner. Now there is a building with no roof, one crumbled wall, and a large royal palm tree leaning out of the top of the structure. A flock of broken-up pink plastic flamingos is sprinkled about the parking lot, intermingled with random Budweiser cans from a scattered beer display. It looks like a bomb went off in the middle of a Jimmy Buffett concert. Gas pumps are on their sides; several are just ripped out of the ground and thrown somewhere else—perhaps dropped in the Everglades with the body of the Bratmobile.

I stop the ATC and take in the damage caused by the storm. BLAM! A shotgun blast booms from inside the store. “Go away!” somebody shouts. “No looting. Looters will be shot!” I kickstart the ATC and turn north on 29, waving at the store behind me as I leave. I feel the Luger sitting heavy in my waistband. I’ve never fired a gun before, but maybe it’s good that I have it.

Just like the trail, Route 29 is cluttered with trees and debris. Once again I am thankful for the all-terrain cycle. The road is lined on both sides with ten-foot high chain link fence. I wonder if that is meant to keep man on the road or the animals off. The fences are not intact. In many areas they are toppled by palms and tall cypress trees. The highway goes on for miles with no crossroads, no buildings, no people. Occasionally I see an overgrown, unpaved access road off to one side or the other. Otherwise, Route 29 is a long, lonely, uninterrupted line of pavement through a big swamp.

Even with the three-wheeler, progress on the road is not fast. The obstacles, hurdles, and hindrances challenge the cycle, challenge me. At noon I stop the trike and snack on a rubbery piece of gator jerky that Arnette and Pervis packed for me. Overhead I see an enormous white-headed bird circling. His brownish-black body and wings making no effort. He glides on an air current above me. The wingspan is as impressive as I’ve ever seen on a bird. I’m no expert but I would guess that the majestic animal is a bald eagle. This must be a good sign, I think to myself. I finish up my salty gator meat and ride the ATC down a nice clear patch of road that is relatively free of hurricane damage.

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