The Steering Wheel of Karma

Like pretty much everyone, I've encountered the occasional spot of road-rage in my years driving a car. This one takes the cake. It's notable because:

1. I did absolutely nothing to provoke it. Nothing. The guy showed up on my bumper and thirty seconds later tried to wreck me.
2. Justice was served.

I was eastbound on Colorado going towards Bundy in Santa Monica, CA, back in the days when my car was brand new and seen as somewhat exotic. (It's a red Miata that I didn't pay $16K for, but few people had ever seen one back then. This happened in early 1990.) I had a bag of hamburgers and fries on the passenger's seat, and was headed back to my west L.A. apartment where my girlfriend was waiting. The road was deserted and I was tooling along happily, going about 30.

A late-model brown Corvette squealed around a corner and got behind me. Right behind me. As in, he was so close I couldn't see the hood of his car in my mirror; he couldn't have been more than six inches from my bumper. The Santa Monica cops are somewhat intolerant of speeding, which I was already doing (it was a 25 zone) and I wasn't about to go 40 to please this nut. I waved for him to pass me and pulled to the right a little. He just sat there, practically on top of me.

Suddenly, he veered to the left and pulled alongside. He sat there, without passing, for a few seconds. I realized I had some kind of dangerous lunatic on my hands, so I was ready for him when he slammed on the brakes and wrenched his wheel to the right, trying to ram me. I hit the skids and fries went everywhere. He locked his tires, and at low speeds a Miata stops faster than a 'vette anyway, so he missed me, just barely. We were sitting still in the middle of the road, with him diagonally in front of me while I frantically looked for a weapon (I had nothing suitable in the cockpit, unfortunately). Then there was a huge SCREEEECH as he floored the 'vette into a long skittering arc that ended with a BANG when he wrapped it around the nearest light pole. The car was totaled.

I wanted to jump out, run back to the trunk, get the lug wrench and demonstrate my deepest sympathies but I came to my senses and realized the cops would be there soon and my burgers were getting cold. So I drove away slowly. The dude was staring at me out of his window with a dazed, dumb look on his face and blood streaming down his forehead. I tooted the horn twice -- beep beep! -- and gave him a cheery wave as I passed on my way back home.

He surpassed mere drunkenness; he had to be blasted on coke or PCP or something. At any rate, the wheel of karma came up with his name on top. No doubt.