About 8 years ago I got up in the middle of the night and as per usual I looked out my kitchen window, drank my milk, and went back to my warm bed.
In the morning I looked out the same window and saw police cars not 400 feet down the road. It turns out that during the night a disabled fellow got out of his car to take a piss, fell into the ditch, couldn’t get out and froze to death.
It was a long time before I could look out that window and not think of that poor man freezing, scared, and alone, while I was sitting in my warm kitchen watching but not seeing.
On Friday, when I showed up at work at 7:30, my bosses wife was alive. When I brought my lunch back to the office at 11:30, I found out she was dead. She was an ex-coworker and had stopped by the office on Wednesday and said hey to everyone. She was to all appearances completely healthy. But was found dead at home while were all sitting at our desks or in meetings or doing whatever.
I know I’m headed for Hell, but I immediately thought of The Russians are Coming, the Russians are Coming! — specifically, the sequence shown here and here.
Glad I read the thread…I was thinking about linking this story.
It sometimes creeps me out when I’m doing something pleasant and I realize, somewhere in the world, someone is living an active nightmare–maybe as the victim in a protracted and thorough murder, or simply dying from exposure and trauma after falling off a mountain. And here I sit laughing at another hysterical episode of Family Guy instead of helping. I feel like such a dick.
It’s OK, but I prefer the sequel in which he explores his abilities in remote assassination and learns to direct his powers toward specific targets by drinking different kinds of roasts and blends.*
Upcoming film adaptation to be the first in a series of Starbucks-funded action blockbusters.
A few years back, a pedestrian got hit by a car right in front of my office. He was in the crosswalk when he was hit. The bloodstain was about halfway down the block.
On a brighter note, about two or three weeks back, I was driving across the Richmond bridge late at night, when I encountered stopped traffic. About a hundred yards ahead of me, someone’s Porsche had burst into flames for no apparent reason. Both passengers and their pet beagle escaped from the car unharmed before it was completely consumed. By the time the fire engine got there, all that was left was a charred frame.