Club 27 Has Reached Capacity - F. T. Willz

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intelligence was brutally slaughtered today, while the bright orange sun cheerfully smiled down from the heavens, secretly burning thin layers of skin off everyone who walked below it.

intelligence was caught between the vinyl sticker covered bumper and the flimsy plastic fender of two badly driven automobiles.

the sticker covered bumper belonged to a bored, suburban, highly meticulous woman, who was putting on her makeup in the visor mirror (barbie pink and artificial colored toxic aquamarine what a scene), picking at her acrylic nail tips in pompous ennui.

the fender was attached to the company car of a prestigious businessman (fucking pig in a suit a nice clean dry-clean-only suit), and he was running late for yet another meeting about who the fuck cares.

fucking-pig-in-a-suit sped up when barbie slowed down, and the intelligence was caught in the air between them, in that split second when the well-dressed swine realised: oh shit the boss ain't gonna like this one.

all the bystanders were splattered with a visceral spray of plastic bits and what was left of the drivers smarts, and the cars themselves crunched and compressed like a soda can beneath a rowdy teenagers brand named sneaker.

barbie didn't have insurance and the businessman was steaming mad you could see it puffing out of his ears in a haze of fuckyoufuckyoufuckyoufuckyou.

everyone walks away a little more stupid and a lot worse for the wear.

maybe that goddamn pig-headed bastard went home and hung himself with his fancy silk tie (oh you paid how much for that?), because he didn't make the cut.

maybe barbie toddled around in her platform sandals with her oh-so-neat-and-perfect fried blonde puff of hair until she found a taxi willing to take her home.

or maybe neither of those things happened.

and no one realised exactly what happened today.