Bob, Steve and Raul were having a fantastic night drinking. The left the bar at closing time, shepherded out by burly bouncers into the bitter New England night. Steve, the soberest one, drove Raul's car, bumping over patched potholes, through windy turns and intersections. They ritualistically stopped at a gas station/mini mart. Consumption in America doesn't rest even in during extreme intoxication. The desire is so thoroughly burnt in, that even when the entire world of perception is a fragmented half-truth, consumption asserts its control. They entered to buy junk food. Raul's street upbringing combined with his alcohol induced lack of restraint motivated him to steal what he wanted.

Raul exited the store first and jumped into the driver's seat of his late-model Toyota. The three men sped away as fast as the car's engine would shudder. They raced down country roads at highway speeds. Raul didn't see the stop sign signifying the end of the street.

As the car blew past the stop sign, Raul attempted to turn left. But at 80 miles an hour, a 90 degree turn is impossible. Raul was able to turn about 10 degrees. Just enough to land squarely in the path of a large Oak tree--the centerpiece of the house and property facing the stop sign and intersection. It is near this tree that snow from the street-which-ended gets plowed into. It is here that those who did not see the end marker reach their own.

The airbags shot out and then deflated like a teenager blowing a bubble and then pop-smacking it with a finger flick-- a well-timed and coordinated event set to occur at the perfect instant. But alas, the velocity too great and the Oak too surly. Raul and Bob were ejected from the front seat like fireworks shot off into the night. Steve bounced around the cab interior like a pinball.

In one instant, three warm functioning mounds of flesh turned into three cold lifeless forms. Broken necks, collapsed lungs and internal bleeding accounting for the final thrust metamorphasizing three existences into oblivion.