Today, as I was strolling down Bedford Ave slashing the tires of the 1000′s of illegally chained Schwinn bicycles, I decided to yell “Hey Caleb and Josh!!!”. So when 34 of them turned around at once, I flung a fresh-out-of-the-box Makita 12″ table saw blade and decapitated all of them with out injuring even one of the normal Brooklynites that were trying to navigate home to their families through the sea of lice beards, summer wool ski hats and Ray Bans. End of story.
Today, I saw Beckett, who in just six months transformed himself from a Minnesotan Walmart parking lot shopping wagon stacker to an emaciated, red bearded, Bushwick DIY blacksmith. So I handcuffed his windshield wiper arms with an onion ring and suplexed him into his vintage sword making kiln. End of story.
Today, I saw Buchanan the beta-male heading from his job as a part-time cacao bean sorter at Mast Bros. gentrification chocolate factory to a ‘silent dinner’ at a progressive conceptual fusion restaurant in Lower West Upper Mid Central East Bushwick, dressed as an 1863 confederate soldier. So I had no other option but to bludgeon him with a croquet mallet and fire Buchanan out of a Civil War-era cannon into the side of an out-of-place new condo building that was built between a poultry slaughter house and an auto body shop. End of story.
Today, I saw Logan the bearded Gowanus Canal buoy art designer waiting for the [G]entrification train to take him back to his $3250 Greenpoint studio. So I picked up his A-1 Steak Sauce bottle physique; flipped him upside down; shook out all his Daddys credit cards; went to Modells and bought a lifetime’s supply of Louisville Sluggers to beat hipsters with. End of story.
Today I saw Kalan the transplanted, parentally-subsidized, emaciated, pseudo-anarchist, under-performance “artist” making squeaky noises with balloons and playing with doll heads as “art” on the world famous Bedford Ave train platform stage. So I brushed his teeth by pressing his dirty face against the side of an incoming speeding L Train. End of story.
Today I saw roughly 50 birthday candle armed, Brooklyn-sterilizing, Smith Bros cough drop bearded, smug transients protesting in front of the MTA offices to have wi-fi installed at every single stop along the L train so their social media lives would be uninterrupted during their 36 month Brooklyn gentrification play dates. So around lunch time I pulled up in a Tristan’s Taco food truck and fed them all ricin-laced sustainable vegan tacos a la Heisenberg. End of story.
Today, in the pouring rain, I saw Logan the funemployed fauxhemian jumping into puddles and nasally yelling “I’m singing in the rain” as he went to the Wisconsin-themed ‘bodega’ run by two girls that look like Pippi Longstocking to get his quinoa and cruelty-free bacon sandwich. So I dug up Gene Kelly’s thigh bone and beat his brains out of his unwashed skull with it. End of story.
Today, I saw Patterson dressed like Uncle Jesse from Hazard County, playing the washboard under the Williamsburg Bridge for loose change yet he shares a $3500 two bedroom with Brent the barista. So I dragged him by his suspenders to a laundromat; poured a gallon of bleach in his eyes and tossed him in a washing machine on high spin until until every bone was broken. End of story.
Today, I saw Trevor with his strapped on vintage guitar heading from “I’ll never actually be a real musician” band practice to his “Thanks Mom and Dad for paying my $2450 a month Bushwick rent this year” apartment. So I grabbed the guitar and put his head under the steel strings against the fret board and tightened all the pegs until his face sliced into seven pieces like a hard boiled egg. End of story.