We came to see the accident

The driver’s door forced open violently against all the protest of screeches and scrapes. Dizzy and disorientated stumbling faintly around the obstacles. More delirious with shock than inhibited by physical injury or hampered by the slightest regret. As onlookers start to gather the skies open up with a deluge to insult. The rain comes to late to be rolled off as an excuse to cover incompetence. Jaggedly broken pieces of plastic scatter the footpath, freed from the car in a ceremony of tremendous noise and visual carnage. The electricity pole bears the scars of its brief encounter with the chromed splendor that adorned the front of the vehicle and now wallows immovably placed inside this twisted steel embrace. Rich red wood exposed to the air veiled by brown age weary splinters along the deep gashes gouged from this once imposing yet seemingly unnoticable wooden stave. Wires once taught now dangle lifelessly or lay heaped on the ground occasionally showering sparks to show the menace they still possess Flashing lights and traffic cones mark the site unfit for public display or query. Dangerous grounds to tread the line handed out to the curious wishing to seek better vantage of the display. The ease at which to gain a license and willingness to through rules to the wind makes for an unknowing adventure of our streets.

Black toothed grin

Teeth of the people. Crooked as fuck, Broken and slintered. A pile of Needles and scags tumbled effortlessly at best into the mouths of those around me by someone on an ether huffing delirium. Aged carefully in swills of coffee and nicotine. Left to the elements clinging desperately to receding gums of stench most foul. Some unaccounted for and others turning delicious shades of brown through black. Smiles are not fashionable on everyone

Beyond the crest is what the crowd came to see

As the Studebaker crested the hill with all the glorified commotion of its era, our eyes were struck with the image of hicks gaping in wonder at a newly discovered hole.
Not a peculiar or uncommon site for these parts. Puzzling though was that the hole being gaped and gawked at by the unwavering crowd, who incidentally seemed oblivious and impervious to my ferocious work on the cars horn, was not made by the absence of dirt as most are. This was a hole straight from heaven, or that’s how it appeared, ablaze with the streaming light of an afternoon sun pouring down into my lounge room through what used to be my houses roof.
“To be fair, the roof makes the hole look quite impressive. If the roof weren’t so fancy I probably wouldn’t be staring at it.” An old farmhand offered as some sort of compensation. He was met with steely silence from myself and gaited polite awkwardness from the gathered crowd. “Think about it.” He added as if id missed the funny quip hidden somewhere in the nonsense.
“If it were up to me well first I’d gather a posse, drink rye till we are thinking clearly, then drive around smashing letterboxes until someone gets a something done” remarked a man in quite a state of intoxication who was by all rights aiming at the highest order of dishevelment I have ever seen or even contemplated. His achievement of delivering his verdict and sentencing now completed he passed out there and then, the last syllable to roll from his tongue seemingly being the only thing to keep him from a whisky fueled slumber. But being they were simple country folk they were forgiven for arrogance and retribution. A cultural thing of difference it was once explained to me. No man alive in the town would be hung from the highest tree for there thoughts, well no man this side of the tracks as far as history was concerned.
I’d fix the roof in the morning; the locals would clear by the weekend.