Machelle fought for control of her car. She watched as the truck behind her backed off on the declines and caught up to push her car on the inclines. With a shaky hand, she fumbled for her phone and called 911. "P-p-ple-ase help me. My ex-ex-ex h-h-husb-b-band is b-b-b-behind m-m-me and h-h-he is t-t-ttrying t-t-t-to k-k-kill m-m-me. I-I-I-I d-d-d-don't have b-b-b-brak-k-kes."
The dispatcher started to ask follow up questions. "Okay, ma'am. We are going to send help. I need to know your na…" The calm voice stopped speaking as the sound of screeching metal filled the air. Machelle's car was rear-ended again. She held onto the wheel and maintained control of the car. "You are doing very good. Hang on. What's your name?"
"Elle." she said softly.
"Elle, help is on the way. Tell me what you see. Landmarks, street names. Talk when you can."
Machelle described the small towns and called out street names that she passed. She told the dispatcher the name of the gas station that she had used to fill her tank. She named her ex-husband and described his truck. She squealed each time he rear-ended her car. "I can't keep this up." she cried.
"We are almost there. I promise." the dispatcher said. "You should hear sirens in the next 90 seconds."
"I can't hold on that long." She looked in her rear view mirror. "Here he comes again." Metal screeched on metal. Glass shattered. Machelle saw pavement, sky, pavement, sky, grass, sky, and then grass. Is that grass? Maybe that is wheat. Or is it grain? Machelle tried to unfasten her seatbelt. As she reached for it, she heard his footsteps approaching. The little glass that hadn't shattered broke in the onslaught of the tire-iron that was swung in her direction.
"Bitch! You think you can have it all, do you? Who the fuck do you think you are? Fucking Randy Orton? Really?" Machelle tried to protect her face, but the end of the tire iron was coming into the car and hitting her shoulder and arm. She squirmed in her seat as he tried to reach further in, managing to hit her collar bone and the top of her chest. "Bitch! Bitch! You ruined my life! You ruined my life! I did nothing wrong, BITCH! And now you fuck Randy Orton! Die, bitch, die!"
"FREEZE! Put your hands up! Drop the tire iron! Step away from the car!"
Machelle heard the police drag him away. She heard someone kneel by the driver's side door and ask how she was. She clutched her phone in her hand and reached her hand out of the broken window. It was the last thing she remembered.
Joe Anoa'i lay in his hotel bed in Nashville. The dull ache in his lower abdomen was becoming unbearable. He tried switching positions. He tried going to the bathroom. He tried a hot shower. He tried a cool shower. He tried a towel full of ice. Nothing provided relief.
He picked up the phone and called his girlfriend. Voicemail. Again. He dropped the phone on the bed in frustration. The vibrations of the phone landing on the mattress had him drawing his legs up in the fetal position in pain. Reaching for the room phone, he reluctantly dialed 911. "I need an ambulance."
