Tomato boy and his accomplices
Metaphors involving a tsunami
Small insignificant animals run away from danger. We seem to think if we hit things head on they'll all turn out for the better, that facing out problems will solve them. But a tsunami isn't going to see you standing defiantly on a beach with your head held high and think to itself "My my, look at that brave little thing, I think I'll just tun myself around and leave that poor soul alone". No, the tsunami would just wash you away, like everything else in it's path. Every ant, every brick, every hose, every genetically mutated monster (assuming that there's some around) would be swept of their feet, in exactly the same way and be killed in exactally the same way.
Well a 4WD is a lot like a tsunami, except for one difference- the space under it.
As Edgar saw the epic beast bearing down at him and caught the hyperactive, coffee induced crazed look on the face of the driver, he did what the majority of overly stressed people who get needles thrown at them and who get picked on by hookers do-
he passed out. And the car went right over top of him, missing him completely, bar his hand.
The red hot pain in his head and in his hand, the pressure, the splintering sound and the coppery smell of blood woke Edgar momentarily, but all he could see through a haze of red was the criss-cross pattern of the hookers fishnets, and their eyes, turned into massive fish-like orbs as they stared at the bloodied remains of his hand, which, cooked up and served would possibly make the most delectable mince, though lying there on the ground still slightly attached to a dirty, bloody young boy, looked slightly less than appetizing.
Well a 4WD is a lot like a tsunami, except for one difference- the space under it.
As Edgar saw the epic beast bearing down at him and caught the hyperactive, coffee induced crazed look on the face of the driver, he did what the majority of overly stressed people who get needles thrown at them and who get picked on by hookers do-
he passed out. And the car went right over top of him, missing him completely, bar his hand.
The red hot pain in his head and in his hand, the pressure, the splintering sound and the coppery smell of blood woke Edgar momentarily, but all he could see through a haze of red was the criss-cross pattern of the hookers fishnets, and their eyes, turned into massive fish-like orbs as they stared at the bloodied remains of his hand, which, cooked up and served would possibly make the most delectable mince, though lying there on the ground still slightly attached to a dirty, bloody young boy, looked slightly less than appetizing.