What the Meth-induced psychosis suffering driver of the Bronco referred to as the “red Gargoyle” was actually a red Honda Civic driven by a young lady named Lola Kirklan who happened to be in a fragile emotional state at the time. She was not having a good holiday season; her boyfriend of the past four years had just broken off their relationship for no discernible reason. They were the best, most happiest, joyful, and uplifting years of her life. It had been her first real romantic and intimate relationship, one with a future to look forward to, without a doubt. And within days of the massacre at Zion Fraternity, it was over.
“Having had such an experience with the close brush with death,” he had said, “made me gain a new perspective on what I am doing with my life, in what direction I’m going, where I’m going to end up.”
“What are you telling me?” Lola had asked. “You want to change your career goals, or something? That’s okay with me, I’ll support you no matter what you want to do with the rest of your life.”
“It’s not that, Lola. I don’t want to change my life goals.” He looked away from her loving gaze, and said, “I want to change who I’m with while achieving them. It’s over between us, Lola.”
And without changing a beat, he got up off her bed and left the room.
For almost ten minutes Lola sat still on the edge of her bed, feet flat on the carpet, her mouth agape, and her throat making crackling sounds as if she were about to say something, but couldn’t form a word.
Later that evening she tried calling his cellphone, but went straight to voicemail. She left a message demanding an explanation about the reasons which lead him to end their seemingly almost perfect relationship. She then sent text message after text message demanding answers, cussing him out, and making statements like: “You said you weren’t even in the FUCKING house when the shooting started, PUSSY!”
A week later Lola was walking through the Cal Poly campus when she saw him strolling on the lawn under the shadows of trees, holding a girl’s hand. The girl had long, blond, flowing hair that reached just above her skinny ass, wore a tight, white tank-top with thin straps that fully exposed cleavage from her big, balloon boobs. The slut was the complete opposite of Lola.
So after finishing the semester pissed off, Lola decided not to spend winter break with her mother, but go on a driving trip north by herself. Her mother was a lovely woman, yes, but Lola wasn’t quite ready to hear the “plenty of fish in the sea” speech. She packed her suitcase, bought half a dozen pre-made sandwiches and two bottles of organic apple juice, put them in a small cooler, then got in her 2008 red Honda Civic, heading north on Highway 101 with no idea where she was going to end up; maybe just stop somewhere that would be quiet.
The moment she was getting onto 101, the white Bronco screeched out the driveway of the Lopez estate, making its way to the same highway.
Lola turned on the Pandora radio to soft music that wasn’t too uplifting, nor too sad; she loved honest music - especially if it fit with her current situation. At first the song that started playing made her tear up. The moment she was about to weep she took deep breaths, wiping away her tears with the sleeve of the knitted sweater she was wearing.
“There’s no fucking way he’s making me cry anymore,” Lola said aloud. “Motherfucking bastard wants sluts with STD’s. Go right ahead, you two-headed bastard.”
She then began growling and baring her teeth as the image of him and that skank-whore went through her mind. Then the thought of running in on them while they slept in bed, and beating them to death with a baseball bat gave her some pleasure, making her grin.
The disturbing, happy thought was interrupted when the white Bronco clipped the side of her car as it sped passed.
Lola screamed, the sudden impact sending a shock throughout her entire body. For a moment she thought the car was going to spin out of control, but the impact merely made the car sway a bit in the left lane, allowing her to gain control again.
Her fear turned to anger in an instant when she saw the white Bronco that swiped the side of her car, noticing the male figures inside. It kept speeding down the highway without slowing down.
Typical men, she thought, with total disregard for the safety of those around them. They’re probably heading to Portland to screw a heroin addicted prostitute with herpes for their winter break vacation, only to come back afterwards to their girlfriends who they’ll inadvertently, stupidly pass along said STD to.
While this thought was going through her mind, Lola stepped on the gas peddle, eyes widening, hands gripping the steering wheel almost as if she wanted to break it off. Due to her speeding up over a hundred miles an hour to catch up with the white Bronco, she didn’t notice one of the many cop cars gaining behind her in the right lane. She lost all sense of self-preservation as her red Honda Civic caught up with the Bronco that was still in the right lane. She veered slightly to the left onto the shoulder, then turned the steering wheel sharply to the right, aiming the front end of her car at the back end of the Bronco.
The red Honda Civic collided hard into the Bronco, causing the front wheels to lift off of the pavement, its smashed bumper pointing upwards at an angle for a mere second as it turned and rolled to the side of the road. Inside, as it tumbled, Lola roared like a bear about to maul a predator threatening her cub, tensed up, both hands still grasping the steering wheel.
The Honda Civic rolled a total of three times, teetered on the two right wheels before settling right-side up.
At the end of the day an officer wrote in his report that when he arrived to the scene of the red Honda Civic wreck, he found the driver’s door open, and laying on her back in the dirt was a fully conscious Lola Kirklan, grimacing in pain.
“Wow, I can’t believe you’re alive, ma’am,” the officer had said looking down at Lola.
“Fuck men’s beliefs,” she said.
