In a Cold Sweat

Yesterday, J. and I went out to lunch at Siam Terrace. As we got out of the car, an extrordinarily dented Chevy Malibu cruised past us with an unkempt wild-eyed fellow at the wheel.
J. joked, "I sure hope he doesn't park near my car, he looks like he'd probably hit it."
"Merrrrful merrrrful", I chuckled.
So we went on in to have lunch and it was wonderful as usual. After we paid our bill, we made our way back down the street to the lot where we were parked. Just as we reached it, an awful ruckus assailed our respective ears. The crazy man we had seen earlier tore out of an adjacent parking lot and swerved toward us, then, just as suddenly, he swerved away from us.
"Get his license plate number!"
"Okeeday!"
With a banshee shriek of rubber, the psycho peeled away.
We investigated the damage. The nutball had pushed his midsize car through a space wide enough to accomodate two motorcycles side by side and distinctly too narrow for a Chevy Malibu to pass.
Hence the ruckus.
"Let's call 911!"
"Is this an emergency?"
"Let's go into the building and find the owners of the cars!"
"Okeeday!"
And in we went. We walked down a long and eerily white hallway to a door mysteriously marked, "Accountancy Office". Below those terrifying words there was another sign. In an ominously curling script it read, "Please Come In." I suspected that we would be killed immediately upon entrance.
Instead, a cheerfully plump woman inquired, "Can I help you?"
"Hi", I began, "we are but two humble witnesses to an egregious crime, the maiming of an innocent pair of automobiles in your parking lot. We have the license plate number of the villian responsible. Perhaps we can give you this information so that you could contact the appropriate authorities and bring this man to justice?"
"Heavens to Betsy! Those are probably Marcy's and Beatrice's cars. Let me get them." She disappeared into the office and returned with two women who were utterly indistinguishable from her and each other.
"Okeeday...", I mumbled, exchanging a look with J.
J. and I followed the three identical middle-aged women out to the lot. Upon seeing the respective states of their automobiles, a mournful keening broke forth from 'twixt the smearily rouged lips of Marcy and Beatrice.
When I could take it no longer, I cried out, "Halt thy repulsive tears, vile maids! The identity of this foul character is easily ascertained! We have his license plate number and a speedy call to the local law enforcement should deliver the dastardly knave unto justice's powerful grip."
"Yes! Yes! We shall contact them immediately", the shrews cried in unison.
"I am afraid that I have an engagement elsewhere", I excused myself, "but allow me to leave you my contact information in the event that the investigating officer requires a witness."
"Thank you, Oh Benevolent Manchild!"
"'Tis nothing", I replied.
They took down my name and number and J. and I drove off to the hospital because I had had a fever of 102.2 for 2 days. (Note: The doctor said I have a cold, but I STILL have a fever and I am not sneezing.)
Not much later, I received a call on my mobile telephone from an Officer Rhednec.
"Could you describe what you saw, son?"
"I'm really more of an ear-witness", I joked through my feverish haze. "But, I heard a terrifying rending of metal and fiberglass and I saw a severely damaged white car with a grey-haired oldish sort of fellow at the wheel."
"Did the man look...unbalanced?"
"Well...", I considered his query. "He did look a bit harried, but he had just hit two cars, so..."
"Can you think of anything else?"
"There was a Jesus-fish on the back of his car."
"Hmmmmm. That seems kind of contra-dic-tory", drawled Officer Rhednec. "You'd think he'd of stopped."
"Well, you'd hope", I replied.
Officer Rhednec thanked me and, as I hung up, I felt my precious organs being cooked by my still-raging fever.
"The horror...", I choked, "the...horror."

True story.