An Accident

“Why did the petrol station have to be there?” the boy asks hazily, blinking from the driver’s seat of the car he had just spectacularly crashed through the glass window into the soft drink fridge.
He’s drunk as skunk and, judging by the smell, high as well.
I’m amazed he knows where he is.
Maybe if he hadn’t done it about ten inches away from me, I would not want to maim him.
“Baby,” he pokes the girl giggling in the shotgun, “that’s a real flamingo. In a petrol station.” And then he starts giggling, too.
I’m gonna kill him.