Boy howdy.
Walkin' down the street you'll see a car accident. At a distance, it will look a bit like a
particularly avant garde piece of performance art, with motherfuckers running
around, looking disoriented, generally not responding when people ask them
simple fucking questions. But as you get
closer you'll see that a lot of these people have very real blood on them, not
the kind you see slathered on folk at performance art events by amateur makeup
artists who work for free based on the misapprehension that people who do
performance art will take care of the people who helped them out when they were
first starting out years down the road when they "make it." No, these people will actually be hurt.
You'll be curious.
You'll wander closer to the site of the chaos, tentative at
first, then rapt, then absolutely fucking enthralled by the charging mass of
human tide that will be flowing around the two vehicles: a minivan, which was
apparently filled with an Indian family that communicates solely by screaming
at other people in a language that sounds vaguely melodious, and an east Asian
family, who seem to communicate only through hollow eyed, terrified stares.
You'll recognize your friend and roommate Reggie, who works
as a paramedic. He'll be standing by the
side of the scene, shaking his head at the chaos. When you wave to him, he'll wave back.
"What's going on, Interest?" he'll ask.
"I was about to ask you the same thing," you'll
respond.
He'll smile and shrug.
"Don't know, but it looks like it's got you piqued, that's for dern
shure!"
At this point the two of you will turn to face the camera
and grin vacantly into its lens, waiting for a signal to stop, a signal to
return to your real lives, a signal that will never come as the gibbering, fear
ridden mass of peoples behind you writhes its way desperately towards a hideous
and universally unsatisfying resolution.
Congratulations Piqued Interest!
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