Moot

Joe and I climb aboard a shuttle bus. Our stay in Vegas has come to an end.

The driver, a witty woman, probably in her early thirties, keeps yelling at the traffic as though she had personally designed the roads herself. We're sitting directly behind her in the first row of seats. I suddenly realize she bares an uncanny resemblance to Wanda Sykes.

"I bet there are a lot of accidents," Joe mutters as he glances at the controlled chaos of Vegas traffic. The windows are tinted and I can see the reflection of the old couple sitting behind us.

"Oh, yeah! You kidding?" she began. Her voice was filled with an intensity that could only be evidence of her unquestionable knowledge of the subject. "There was a big bloody accident just up there last week!" She points a quick finger somewhere down the road in front of us. After a brief pause Wanda adds, "Happens all the time."

As soon as her lips stop moving, an ambulance races by and it pulls up to a curb about a block up. The siren beats against my hangover like a stubborn ex on a locked door.

Outside, I can make out some people gathered around in a circle. They look like a school of fish that's lost it's ability to travel. Eyes wide open, mouths gaping. We speed by and no one says a word.

---

Addendum.

In ancient Rome cowardice was the most despicable crime. If a soldier deserted battle or disobeyed even the most suicidal of orders, the punishment was unthinkable. Specifically, his unit was lined up and every tenth soldier was taken aside and beaten to death by his comrades.

Here, have a stone.