Stupid Slow Bastards Part @

I was walking towards him about to bust him to smithereens when his buddy exploded a bag of cement into my face. I felt my way out of the grey cloud of dust like a zombie escaping a fire thick with smoke. My dad pulled me out of the dust like an archeologist in Pompeii.

“I’m gonna get some hot dogs,” he said. “Don’t scratch the truck.”

“Of course,” I told him as one of the stupid slow bastards swept my legs from under me with a two by four. He tried to drive it through my chest but I caught it and broke it in half with my palm. I swung my half into his crotch and he doubled over crying. I stood and charged his buddy and tackled him to the floor. I picked him up and spun him above my head thirteen times before throwing him into the freeway support pillar. It collapsed bringing the freeway down with it, burying the bastard under 27 cars. I said something witty like, “that’s what you get for not letting us pass. Don’t drink and drive.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” my dad said handing me a hot dog.