Today, I saw Ethan the 34 year old funemployed Culdesacian graffitiologist from Oregon writing his famous tag “KupKakez” on a side of a chicken slaughter house/soon-to-be-condo on a desolate kewel gritty industrial Bushwick street. So I picked up his javelin-shaped body and rifled him into the rotating blades of a news helicopter that was covering the scene of fire I started at the Mast Bros. gentrification chocolate factory. End of story.
Today, I saw Harrison the 32 year old, umbilical cord-shaped, Ulysses S. Grant bearded, 2 year Brooklyn veteran celebrating with other gentrifiers for his promotion from ‘guy-who-rolls-up-electrical-cords-after-a-rock-show-in-a-dive-bar’ to bartender. So I doused him with Bacardi 151 and rubbed his No. 2 pencil arms together to cause friction and set him on fire. End of story.
Today, I saw red bearded, Triple-AAA battery limbed Tristan loudly proclaim in a bar full of part-time vegans and 38 year old skate boarding baristas that he’s FROM Brooklyn. So I had no other choice but to beat him with a 2 X 4 for so long that all that was left in my hand was was a toothpick. End of story.
Today, I saw Evan & Hayden walking to the gentrification gluten-free muffin shop in Bed-Stuy for a quick $16 breakfast before a long and hard day of being “creative”. So I gave them a much needed bath by Krazy Gluing their foreheads to the curb and and running them over with a street sweeper. End of story.
Today, on the opening Sunday of the NFL season, I walked by an overpriced gentrification “craft ale” bar in Bushpointburg full of kazoo-voiced, baguette-bodied, Ohio transplanted hipster fucking beardos cheering as all TV’s were only showing Browns and Bengals games. So I stole a wrecking ball that was about to knock down an affordable building for normal Brooklyn families to build more condos and passed the ball through the bar – splattering interloper brains everywhere. End of story.
Today, I saw Conrad the coffee stirrer armed, under-the-Williamsburg-bridge overpass-typewriter-poet trespass into actual Brooklyn by going to L&B Spumoni Gardens. So I gouged his eyes out with a spumoni scooper and then used a 24-sqaure metal pizza tray to smash across his face leaving a bearded, thick eyeglass frame impression in it. End of story.
Today, I saw Terrence and Quaid at the grand opening of their parentally paid-for typewriter and pennyfarthing museum. So I walked in dressed like the Monopoly man as not to raise suspicion, locked the door and proceeded to club them into comas with my Louisville Slugger. End of story.
Today, I saw Tanner and Hamilton riding their limited edition 1977 rusty Schwinn two-seater bicycle along the Gowanus Canal to the annual Gowanus Creative-Type Superfund Site Toxic Clam Bake happening since way back in 2011. So I jumped in one of the magnetic cranes at the nearby scrap yard and ascended them into the magnet, cracking their skulls, and then released them into the canal where they dissolved like a couple of artisanal Alka-Seltzers. End of story.
Today, I saw Mason the fly-weight fauxhemian, red bearded, ChapStick-armed, hardcore drug dealer of ‘The Shwick’ selling dime bags of kale to other organic sustainable interlopers during their 2 1/2 year gentrification playcations in Brooklyn. So I filled his Breuckelen Industries murse with dynamite and gun powder that leaked a long Wile E Coyote style trail back to his $3800 studio that I lit and blew his 106lb MichiWiscOhian body to pieces. End of story.
Today, I saw “creative-types” Lockett, Baylor and Emerson sewing summer scarfs in McCarren Park while sipping on some estrogen-infused kale smoothies. So I pulled down their Laurel and Hardy derby hats over their eyes and rammed their crochet needles into their jugulars. End of story.