Greenville Blvd and Memorial

All over the world, at every intersection, one by one the lights are going out. Those who still have lips have but one question on them: is this the end? What is it the end of? Pedants say that's two questions, but who's counting at a time like this? Pedants receive a smack in the gob. We cheer.

Bacteria will inherit the earth. This means the end of all stories. What stories can you tell of bacteria? They divide; they don't divide. It's not a potential best-seller, although of great interest to a bacterium. The name of that bacterium is Graham. We will learn of his wisdom later.

Thank God there's still a light at the intersecton of Greenville Blvd and Memorial. We join hands around it and sing. Some raise cigarette lighters in silent supplication to Tobacchus, god of coughing. We drink pina colada in the rain. What more can we do?

Some think that Blvd stands for boulevard, but it doesn't. It is, in fact, beloved. Greenville Beloved. Hence the memorial. Few people know that, and most of those are by now dead or insane. Let us keep the knowledge alive.

We knew it was too good to last. Heading towards us at an astonishing speed is the biggest clusterfuck we've ever seen. Graham advises us to divide, and so we do, running in all directions. The clusterfuck advances like a tornado, sweeping all before it.

They need to fix this, and soon. The clusterfuck is slowing, it seems to be looking for something. Has it lost its cheese? It extends an arm and, between two bony fingers, delicately pinches out the intersection light.

Darkness falls.