a little girl looked outside her apartment window. the tree was on fire. two cars were cooking up the jungles. only one car was targeted. a molotov. the other fell like a domino.a block away, on august 4th, 2017, m. woods saw a young man die. he was shot in the alley. after a few sharp pops and a prolonged screech, wes walked to the corner, across the street from the body. a group of onlookers stood and discussed in detail the few minutes they remembered before the rupture, but were otherwise unfazed.a wire deep in the back of wes’s throat triggered his gag reflex as he saw the white sheet draped unceremoniously over the man’s body. he must have been declared dead on site, lit now only by strobing pig lights. the wire tugged at his stomach by a fishing hook, and a dull ache of warm infection, a thick molasses, rose up into his throat.NOWswaying nauseously. growling, screaming, heaving the contents of his lungs to cough up the wire and pull at its pus sack. there was no evidence the wire existed. pinching tweezers digging against the esophagus. not a hair. not a wire or pus sack. not even a throat after a while. just a hole. someone opened another hole down the block. the LA Times wrote a paragraph about it. that was it.
