"Because whoever or whatever was piloting it didn't—or couldn't—decelerate enough for an orthodox landing," Dexter explained. "Lucky it hit the clearing. If it had hit the trees, you'd have had a forest fire on your hands."
Jeremiah looked worried. "Maybe we'd better be getting back to the road. I feel kind of guilty leaving my model A sitting there all alone."
Dexter followed him back through the woods and climbed into the front seat beside him. The road took them to the main highway, and not long thereafter Jeremiah turned off the highway into another road—a familiar road heralded by a familiar sign that said, SUGARDALE THREE MILES. Two slag deposits marked the spot where once Dexter's proud convertible had stood. He gazed at them sadly as they passed.
Suddenly Jeremiah brought the model A to a screeching halt. The two desecrators of the American Dream Incarnate were in the midst of another repast. The victim this time, judging from the still-visible star and the O.D. color scheme, was an army staff car. The grill and the motor were already gone, and half of the roof was missing. Yellow haze enshrouded the sorry scene, and the countryside was resounding to a series of horrendous CRUNCHES.
"Do you think if I sort of zoomed by, we could make it?" Jeremiah asked. "I hate to go all the way around the other way."
"I'm game if you are," Dexter said.
ZOOOOOOMMMMMMM!
The two monsters didn't even look up.
"You'd think my model A wasn't good enough for them," Jeremiah said peevishly.