It’s amazing how quickly a little thing like attempted vehicular homicide can put a damper on your evening.

I had a work function this evening that filled me full of steak and lemonade. Sated, I made plans to meet Ed at the McDonalds on Hastings and Highway 1, as it was relatively central to his North Shore and my downtown locations. I arrived shortly before him, and we headed out to our evening destination: Coquitlam Center.

We pulled out of the parking lot and stopped for a red light. We were in the rightmost lane; an HOV lane during the day and street parking in the evening. There were cars parked in the lane ahead, but I had ample room to accelerate when the light turned green and get ahead of the cars next to me.

I did not count on two things: 1) a premature throttle twist on my part, and 2) the Chrysler full of homicidal frat boys in the lane next to me.

I tried to gun it when the light changed, but I misfired and started early. I pulled back, then had to re-rev when the light changed for real. Unfortunately, my misfire alerted the douche bags to my plan, and they decided it would be a right jolly thrill to do their damnedest to keep me from getting in.

I hit the gas, and so did they. I slowed down to let them get over themselves, and so did they. I tried to use Lola’s power and speed up to get ahead of them, but that no fat girl on a scooter is going to get ahead of the Douche Mobile – they sped up.

They were driving a Chrysler 300. It is a very large car. I tried to force my way into the lane – it was either that or hit the parked cars – but they sped up and drove right beside me in the lane, forcing me to the side. I tried again to get around them, but they would not let me. They kept revving the engine and forcing me out of their lane.

I gunned it one last time, and this is where I made my biggest mistake next to not just letting the assholes have their way – I flipped them off. I was filled with adrenaline and trying very hard not to get hit by this massive luxury car intent on pushing me into the row of parked cars. They were being complete assholes and putting me in danger for no good reason, and I was pissed off.

Apparently, douche bags in luxury cars don’t like it when fat girls on a scooters flip them off.

Previously they were just trying to keep me out of their lane; now they were actively trying to hit me. They sped up again, coming within an inch or two of me, and yelled something out the window. I felt the car brush my pant leg, but I didn’t hear their insult because I was too busy trying not to die. The other cars around us gave them a wide berth, and the 300 sped past just as a break opened in the row of parked cars. I moved over and turned right onto Boundary, all too aware that I almost fucking died a second ago.

Okay, maybe that’s a little melodramatic. For all I know, I would have been fine after being run over by an enormous 2 ton sedan.

I wanted to keep scooting, because I needed to calm myself down. Ed pulled us over though, and he called the cops. He asked if I got the plate number, to which I laughed hysterically – the car was never ahead of me until it almost killed me, and I was in no condition to memorize numbers. He passed along what information we had, and after a brief lecture at me (which I shut down; I didn’t need and couldn’t handle a scolding just then) we went to the mall as planned.

I bought a tank top and a necklace.

Then we rode home, unscathed.

I hate it when people try to murder me.