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Fortunately, the reason the bird had busted through the grill tines in the first place was because they were apocalyptically rusted from winter upon winter of getting Ohio road salt slathered over then by heavy interstate traffic. A solution presented itself almost immediately. I reared back and kicked the bent tine as hard as I could. It bent more, but the angle was awkward and I couldn't put the full force of my leg behind the kick. It didn't snap.
Thunder rumbled dully in the distance, but it was still sunny directly overhead. In July in a state where you could readily see fifty miles in every direction, it was always thundering somewhere. I commenced kicking the shit out of the front of the truck.
I went at it for maybe five minutes before I was interrupted by a shuffle of Tevas behind me. Andrew was standing there, smiling lopsidedly. "Dude," he said, extending his hand. "Rocks."
In his hand was a particularly weighty rock, which tapered into an almost spear-like point on one side. I felt like an idiot. "Thanks," I said sheepishly, taking the rock from him.
I gave the grill one measured blow from the rock and the tine snapped off, falling onto the ground in a puff of dust.
"Stone Age wins again!" Andrew yelled triumphantly, both arms in the air.
"You're an idiot," I said, clapping him on the shoulder.
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