A group of ambulances that arrived thirty minutes ago sit parked diagonally in a local neighborhood. Well groomed, well spoken, and unwell intended journalists hold a copper microphone with a sphere of nylon mesh filtering out the sounds. A wife and husband stand a foot away from their screen door, baby boy in hand, trying to calm him down. In the middle of the street is a bloodied pavement. The tar road is wet, and the streetlights reflect off the water filled cracks and potholes. Crimson red and alienated greens can be seen nonchalantly going on and off in the distance. In thе air, mostly methane is cloaking view. It’s bеcause of a vehicle that looks like it went through a machine press, with it’s hood halfway inside the driver seat. The washer fluid is leaking out and the wheels slouch in a hungover way. A group of ambulances are about to take off with each of the critically injured victims carried on gurneys, strapped in and unconscious. Their systems are intoxicated, and the alcohol is a bar fight with the bartender that allowed it to get to this point.