Congratulations on Surviving Maine!

When the truck crashes into you you’ll assume you’re dead. Why would you live through that? You’ll be numb for the first few minutes, expecting to feel trickles of blood running down your face the way you would in the movies, but there won’t be any blood trailing down. There will only be a tremendous soreness and a rapidly forming yellow-black bruise from where the seatbelt slashed into your shoulder.

You’ll unbuckle the seatbelt and step out of the car, shuddering more than shaking when your feet hit the ground. Each footfall will take a surprising amount of effort as you stagger towards the vehicle that struck you, the battered old Ford pickup with a pair of truck nuts up front.

When you get there you’ll see inside and you’ll immediately understand why the man hit you head on going sixty on two lane highway. The lobster will be slashed to the steering wheel, a bottle of whiskey still clutched in his claw. He’ll flip his tail weakly at you and skitter, in his surprisingly masculine lobster voice:

“Fuck you asshole.”

Then he’ll die. You’ll stare in amazement for a few moments, not just for the driving, talking lobster, but also for his raw rudeness and the overpowering odor of alcohol that will be wafting off of him. When you finally regain the capacity to walk around the car you’ll see that he isn’t alone in there. Another lobster, this one with a bow on her head and a black ring around her already black eye, will be staring at you. She’ll be wearing her seatbelt like you were a moment ago, trembling like you will be at that moment.

“Please help,” she’ll drawl in a thick Maine accent. You’ll nod at her and carefully unbuckle her from her seat, bringing her to your car where you’ll let her rest in the passenger’s seat, where your Miyata isn’t quite so crushed. You’ll call the cops with her and the two of you will relate the accident, her husband’s drinking and, when the time comes, she’ll ask the officers to please, please not charge you with anything.

You’ll sit together in your ruined car during the tow to the nearest B&B. You won’t speak, but when you arrive you’ll enter like an old couple. You’ll get a room with a single twin bed and by the time you reach the bed you’ll be so entwined with each other than you’ll barely know where one ends and the other begins (just for reference, you’re the one with skin, she’s the one with a carapace).

Your lovemaking will leave you both feeling drained, so it’ll only seem natural to open the cooler and pull out her husband’s corpse, which the police gave to you in accordance with Maine law. You’ll wake the elderly matron who runs the B&B (it’ll be 10 o’clock, long after Donahue has gone off the air) and ask her if she’d mind the two of you using her kitchen to prepare it. She’ll permit it and the two of you will enjoy the meal in silence, both of you silently smirking (her as much as a lobster can) as you devour the corpse of her husband.

Congratulations on Surviving Maine!