Oh kids, there's bad juju in the air tonight. Everyone's got the Saturday shifty eye, flicking through flavors of fun like a fat kid in an ice cream parlor. It's time for the wisebloods to restock their beverages, lock down the lair, and watch from the window as the wicked and the malformed tear each other apart.
It's the Crawl for Cancer in our fair town.
I can hear them howling at my doorway, pub crawlers binge drinking for cancer, chain smoking for cancer, giving awkwardly enthusiastic head in bathroom stalls for cancer, since noon. Now de-evolved to a state of shambling rage, their eyes have gone shiny to fuck and destroy anything: your pets, your lawn ornaments, your Martha Stewart Everyday Garden Patio Ensemble®.
Yes children, it's a monsterous night in the monkey house!
I'm watching my neighbor, the strange and terrible Don Iguana, do a mating dance in the blue light of his apartment terrarium, furiuosly flicking his tounge to taste the blood in the air. He is a social barometer of the apocalypse, and I implore you to heed his warning. Stay inside. Tell someone close that you love them. Call your mother, for pete's sake. She worries.
Cuz they're burning this fucker down for charity tonight, and come morning, what we build out here could be anything.
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