A bus crashed yesterday, killing forty passengers, thirteen drivers and passengers of other vehicles, eighty-five pedestrians, two cyclists, one picketer, four road crew workers, one orange salesman, one hot dog salesman, twelve soccer players, one cellist, and five covert graffiti artists. “We didn’t even know about the graffiti artists until way after the fact,” said local body recovery volunteer, JJ Smit. “That’s how covert they were. It was like even in death they knew how to tuck into the shadows. You don’t see too much of that anymore. It’s like snakes. You chop off their head and they keep on writhing and being all snake-like. You have to remind yourself of their essential headlessness. You could even be holding their head and you have to remind yourself. ‘Why you twitchin’, snake? You’re in no rush.’ But snakes don’t listen even when dead, and that’ll fuck with a man.”
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