Barry woke up thinking it would be a good day. He’d wrapped the big work project, and had nothing on his calendar until the following Monday. So why not enjoy the perfect weather and take a walk in the park? But on his way there he fell down an open manhole and died. Fucking Barry.
         A passing samaritan saw it happen. He shouted and waved for help. A bunch of folks ran into the middle of the street and tried calling down to Barry, but he was already dead, alas. Then a big white Ford F-150, its brake lines filled with chocolate syrup, came zooming down the steep street and splattered them all. Five dead in traffic accident! read the initial news reports. But that didn’t count Barry, or, oops, the driver of the truck, who plowed into a fruit stand and broke his neck. Bananas everywhere! People slipped and cracked their spines.
         The cops arrived. They were in a foul mood: their morning jelly donuts had been filled with mayonnaise, and they had arrested the hapless baker, who now shared a cell with a psychopathic strangler. The cops shouted keep back, keep back, to the onlookers, then started tasing folks. Their taser batteries had been secretly upgraded, and the people they shocked jerked all over the place, their hair standing straight up, and smoke shot out from their shirt fronts.
         Meanwhile the fire station was on fire and all the water was off! Those guys just didn’t know what to do. The chief stood outside watching the blaze, his hands on his hips and a Kick Me sign on his back. So some guy kicked him in the knees and he fell down and then a guy kicked his face in.
         The 911 operators were trying to get their computers to stop showing porn videos starring their children. In the skyscrapers, hidden pneumatic systems blew fountains of shit at anyone flushing. Countless bicycle couriers went down, sticks in their spokes. In St. Mary’s ICU, a dozen glitter bombs went off. Throughout the city, tampons were found to contain surprise embedded ground glass (for that just-been-raped feeling!). Junkies had their stashes replaced with cement dust, and babies’ dolls wept toxic sludge. The mayor was nowhere to be found: he had been Saran-wrapped to his motel room bed, and a Do Not Disturb sign hung on the door.
         And so it went. April, its Day come round again at last, kept on fucking with all the fucking fools.
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