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Driving my car, I enter into a city in
flame ablaze.
On reaching the square, I am halted by a fire chief in full dress uniform.
As I get out of the car, the heat sucks my breath away. I ask the chief
what has happened, that the whole town is burning.
"We had a problem with pigeons," he says. "This
is the only way to really get rid of them." (Odd, how he stressed
the "really.")
I look around, flames whirling everywhere, buildings beginning to collapse,
black smoke swirling upward.
The chief, taking a sledgehammer, seemingly out of nowhere (as in a cartoon)
and, indicating my car, says, "I've got to make sure your car is
smoke resistant," and with that, begins smashing the car with the
hammer as if this were a bad used car salesman’s TV commercial.
The windshield shatters. I stand frozen in wonder at his actions. How
will I leave this conflagration? I'll have to walk out. Not a pleasant
prospect.
Then I begin the trek, as the Eastern philosopher says, with that first
step. My destination lies on the other end of town, opposite of the way
I had come. The fire chief continues to pound at my car.
["I'll rise a Phoenix!"
cry the flames
The city a crematory
Houses are set afire
and burn to be cleansed of disease
Survivors flee, returning to wilds
while inside the city
a plague takes those who have
expected it the least
Psychic viral poisons
send them to death and pyres of flame
as the faithful die
and the faithless stand and watch.]
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