what i'm listening to right now: A Magazine Called Sunset by WilcoEgg Truck Crashes On Highway, Driver Nowhere To Be Found
It's midnight, and this guy has been driving these eggs on this same route forever. Maybe he nods off, and crashes his truck. Egg yolk bleeds out from the trailor of the truck onto the cold pavement. The man pulls himself out of the truck and doesn't know where he is, or who he is. Just that it's cold and it smells like eggs. Insert endless possiblities for intrigue here. He could roam the country trying to find his real identity. He could be picked up by some CIA guys on their way into DC, carpooling to some clandestine meeting with an oil tycoon telling them who to bomb. He tells them his story, which is short. Perfect patsy for an assassination they've got scheduled in Prauge, and their normal guy has called in sick. Maybe he runs to a house in the country side to call for help. The homeowner is a sadist, and locks him in his gimp-box. I wanna know what happened to this guy.
special thanks to Anita Tikoo for her picture of the eggs and toast.
No comments:
Post a Comment