Roadkill Romeo

By Brian Jordan

I have dispatched several deer via automobile collision, unintentionally of course. And I’ve dined well as a result of these unfortunate occasions. Backstrap is backstrap regardless of how you come upon it. With that in mind, I’m not prone to waste an opportunity or meat for that matter, even if it does mean scaring off a good looking lady.

This particular roadkill incident took place on a back roads night drive partway through a second date with a leggy brunette I’ll call “Natalie.” The deer dove into my front fender and spun under the rear tire before I could stop. It was still alive, but wouldn’t last long as its pelvis was obviously crushed. I could see the horror on my date’s face as she watched the doe scramble pathetically towards the wood line. It became apparent to me that our second date may well be our last and if that wasn’t already a foregone conclusion, it was about to be. I knew what needed to be done.

I didn’t have a gun in the truck. Natalie was a little sensitive about the subject of firearms. So, before our date, I emptied the truck of my regular armory. Judge me all you want, she was a smokeshow. That’s all I’ll say about that. 

As she sat there, stricken, I hunted for something I could use to kill the deer. I came up with an old KABAR that I kept in a backpack behind the driver’s seat. I grabbed the knife and opened the door. Snapping out of her stupor, Natalie called after me, “What are you doing?” I didn’t answer. She was clueless. 

Adrenaline pumped through the veins of that poor doe as I came near. It strained to stand and began to thrash in an attempt to reach the wood line. I saw only one way to go about this. I belly flopped on the deer’s back and wrapped my arm around its neck, holding it as still as I could in a sort of improvised headlock. As the deer continued to struggle, I pulled the KABAR from its scabbard and raised the knife to the deer’s throat just below my left forearm. I applied pressure, broke the skin and drew the knife quickly and deeply through the flesh of the deer’s throat. Scarlet, arterial blood, grew blacker with each fading heartbeat and wet my arms and pooled on the ground surrounding the doe. Its struggling quickly waned, then stopped altogether. 

Twenty minutes down the road, Natalie glanced into the bed of my truck and broke the silence. “Where are you going to bury her?” We haven’t spoken since.




From the FE Films Archive


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