Another semi-frills night downtown with stopovers at Prive and Molly’s. After all the good fortune between the four or five venues we found our way to, I had no idea that last night would end up with guns drawn.

Before I get to that, let me point just one thing out: Spy Club needs rewired. At the very least, the load needs rebalanced so that there’s no repeat of last night. Right around midnight, *pop* — the audio and half of the lights go out. After a solid five minutes, someone found a breaker and everything returned to normal, but not without visible (and audible) awkwardness and more than a few people leaving. Far from being an electrical engineer, I’ll be first in line to guess that it has something to do with the mishmash of extension cords snaked throughout the ceiling and walls. God only knows what the amp rack looks like. To be complete, however, the entire sound system needs pulled as well. It is such a strange blend of brands and ages that it takes considerable effort to extract a precarious balance of decent sound. Even at that, a solid slap on the wall next to the DJ booth can jar a fistful of cables just loose enough to crap out the sound and/or throw in a nice, healthy 60hZ hum.

As Sara and I were leaving, and after returning empty-handed from Palumbo’s (which had a ridiculously long line), we decided we’d fare better by heading out to CPD. As we entered the garage, there was a pretty big fight brewing in the elevator lobby, so we took the back stairs up to the sixth floor. Dodge traffic, enter car, select appropriate track on my new MP3 player, drive. Rounding the corner leading onto the roof, we encountered two cars heading down the wrong way. There’s no way in hell I’m going to back down a double-blind, single-lane, walled-in ramp — especially with drunken pedestrians wandering around, and especially since I wasn’t the one driving the wrong way — so we waited.

And waited.

The first car attempted to back up several times, but the car behind would not move. Eventually, the first car managed to get turned enough to pull into an adjacent parking space. The second car crept forward. Upon seeing me, the second car threw it in reverse and floored it in the beginnings of a very rough three-point turn — much to the crunchy dismay of the parked SUV nearby. After completing the turn and smashing a tail light, the car raced off (going in the right direction this time) and away.

There was no way I was letting a drunken hit-and-run get away. Knowing that he couldn’t get far (thanks to the mass exodus of slow-moving vehicles that gridlock the exit until 3am), I dialled 911 and got in touch with Harrisburg City Police. Gave a description of the car, gave the tag, gave a description of the occupants (two males with baseball caps, driver wearing a white shirt — it’s hard to get much more than that), and gave a summary of what happened. I gave a play-by-play to the dispatcher as we descended the floors. The entire way down, the guy was flooring it, then slamming on his brakes. He was even thoughtful enough to use his turn signal around some of the turns. Once we reached the second floor, she told me that officers were waiting at the exit. I gave a description of my car as well (let’s face it, my car stands out in a crowd) so we’d be easier to spot.

Sure enough, as we got to the exit, an officer flagged the DUI car over to park. He asked me to stick around, so we also pulled in. We were perhaps three spaces away from the DUI. As it turns out, that was just close enough for a front-row seat.

As the lone officer began questioning the driver, several more officers arrived. Thinking that the most we might get to see is a failed sobriety test, Sara and I looked away and began talking about, of all things, my concealed carry permit. Right about the time I was explaining that Pennsylvania residents are no longer required to declare their permit upon getting pulled over (though it’s a good idea to do so), I hear “GET OUT OF THE CAR, NOW! GET YOUR HANDS OUT OF YOUR POCKETS! GET OUT OF THE CAR!” We both look up at the same time to see several Sigarms .45s pointed at the DUI vehicle occupants.

Straight out of World’s Wildest ___.

When it was all said and done, one of the officers came over to get my information. Apparently, the passenger had decided to start grabbing for something in his pants while the driver was being questioned. Never a bright idea. The officer thanked me for calling the guy in, and Sara and I went on our way. We decided to pass on CPD in lieu of Sheetz, for reasons that currently escape me.

The funny thing about this is that right now, someone is cursing me for calling it in. Someone’s probably still in jail, and it’s “my fault” because none of this would’ve happened if I hadn’t called 911. Sure — I forced the driver to drink way too much. I also forcibly made him get in his car and attempt to drive home. I also held him a gunpoint and made him back into that SUV, then take off. Then, as the officers were questioning the driver (note to that guy: visibly intoxicated passengers are usually ignored), I used my powers of mind control to force the passenger to grab for a gun. Or a crack pipe. Or whatever he had handy.

Yep. My fault.

And another night downtown draws to a close.