Macaulay Culkin Causes a Car Accident in Which No One is Seriously Hurt
I cross Vincennes Avenue when the little white man pops up. An ambulance veers only a foot away from me and plows into a small sedan stopped at the light. The car flips backwards and smashes into the front of a bus, which is pushed over a motorcycle. A speeding minivan spins over a group of people standing at the crosswalk and smacks into a lamppost. There is blood splashed along the front of the corner pharmacy and gore coats the street. So many things are on fire, things I didn’t even think were involved with the accident.
“Wow! That was lucky,” the ambulance driver says as he crawls out of the flaming wreck. I run over to him. “Oh my God I’m so sorry I had my headphones and then I just are you okay –” “Hey, hey, calm down. We’re fine.” His legs are mangled and painted with sticky black blood. He doesn’t bother trying to stand. The bus’s doors open and the driver flops to the ground, scissored in half. “Everyone all right over there?” he yells as he stuffs his intestines into his abdomen. I almost pass out. “Yep, we’re good,” the ambulance driver says. “Phil?” “Back here,” a muffled voice echoes in the back of the ambulance. Phil kicks open the back doors and hops out. His upper half is covered in scalpels and needles and he is carrying his head in his arms. The bus driver shouts, “How about you, Miss?” The woman in the sedan yells, “I’m stuck, but I’m not hurt.” The sedan explodes. “Still fine,” she yells from the flaming wreckage.
“How… how are you people even alive?” “What, after this? Psh,” says the biker under the bus. “I’ve been in worse.” The teen driving the minivan has climbed out and is chatting with the pedestrian mess he smeared about how awful traffic has been lately. I fumble for my cell phone. “I’m calling 9-1-1.” “Don’t bother, we’re already here,” the ambulance driver says. “Everyone says they’re fine. If you call, they’ll only get mad at you.” The lamppost falls over onto the driver and the light shatters on his face. I pull the steel post off his head and eye jelly leaks out of his sockets. He props himself up on his elbows and says through a bloodied maw, “Okay, that kinda hurt.” Everyone shares a hearty laugh, everyone except me. I throw up. “Hey, are you all right?” Phil asks.