My psychic told me about a dream she had. I visited her the other day to get a feel for where I'm going wrong in my hunt for a new career. She does a lot of talking, mostly I ignore her breathy verbiage; she drops 'fuckin' noodled 'im' and my attention snapped back to what she was rambling about. Being a transit rider she is constant and consistent with quips about shyte service, rude employees, abusive badged persons, and crazies galore on 'her Maxie' (the damn MAX line near her shop).
She dreamt the head of Trimet was "opened" on a bus in the middle of morning rush hour. She cascaded into vivid detail about the frantic atmosphere of the bus and the steam coming from the argument between N.M. and his attacker, a simple-looking man in pitch black clothing, and overall generic in appearance; a parrot adorning the glove on his dirty hand.
Two movements to the throat, a gesture up the gut, and game over for Neil was her summary.
It was then I had conclusive evidence she was filled with stinky shit, cuz if she were at all any bit in the know she would realize PDX has recently graduated from knives to grenades.
Bus or rail, grenades sorta mean your shift's over.
Also she's full of it because we all know Neil never rides a bus, so he's safe for all eternity.
Long live the King. May he reign for 0.000001% of a millennia.
Love & Guns
- Max Wes, the Purple Line Strangler (blog post writer)
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