The Wreck

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When the bus had taken that final detour, these that are dead had been alive. Some, now charred pieces of unrecognizable meat, stuffed carelessly into body bags by those gloryless professionals who’s undertakings of the day had been greatly appreciated but never acknowledged. There had been three smaller corpses, these were always the first to be taken away. The local media had a penchant for exploitation and the team from the lab knew better than to leave the smaller bodybags within the pan of the newscaster’s camera. Poor young things, but it occured to me that one never gets much older than dead. Such is the irony.

So noone had survived, such a clean accident. An investigation would be launched, probably by the bus company. A hearing would be held. The less sensitive families would try to sue, making their lawyers stinking rich. And all is well that ends well. Such was my disassociation process. It occured to me that the air was chilly, the ground was wet, and the terrain that I had been traversing was rough. None of this had mattered before, due in part to my fixation on the situation at hand. But all too suddenly, I wished for my coat, rubber boots, and a cup of hot coffee. Comfort was too soon imperative, and I would now feel guilty. But my guilt was overridden by the simmulation of satisfaction that I had indeed felt guilty. And in this confused state I wandered the wreckage, looking for the less obvious clues to the puzzle of matter at hand. The puzzle of the matter happened to be the almost nil degree of slope and distance that the bus had attained on impact with the ground. Driven as it had been from the bridge above, with no skid marks suggesting any heavy use of the braking system. There had been a railing, a very stu...

... middle of paper ... of his hinder end. Needless to say and knowledge being learned thing, we all knew better than to cross him. These two always had difficulties relating to each other, as both veiwed their own selves in a highly unrealistic light, permeable only through each the others microscope, which always seemed focused aspectly on each others faults.

So now, on to mcdonalds and a release of those everbeloved endorphines. It happened to be a slow day and so our orders went through pretty quickly. My burger and fries washed down nicely with a large diet coke, made me feel better inside. Black coffee alone performs horribly after three straight hours. But it was my pet addiction. I can't remember going a day in all my investigative career without it. It dried the throat and allowed maximum excuse to be constantly away from the desk on slow days, either emptying or refilling.
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