Disclaimer: some minor profanity.
I have never fathomed the so-called necessity for the business of pubs that make a profit off of young debauchery and intoxication, Bill thinks, smoking a cigarette on a bench beneath a pavement light.
He observes college students drunkenly meander from the O’Kelly’s pub to their parked car. He feels a deep hatred fume within him.
What pleasure could they possibly get out of their insensate behavior? What thrill is there in a hangover? What honour is there in promiscuity? This generation knows nothing of honour and duty. Their narcissism has aborted whatever integrity was once within them.
He doesn’t know why, but he decided to get into his BMW parked across the street from the pub to follow them. They’re stopped at the stoplight at the intersection of Churchill and Buckingham Road as he pulls out onto Churchill behind them.
The light turns green and as they pass through the intersection, the car begins swerving in and out of the two lanes. This makes Bill even more furious.
Of course they’re drunk driving, the idiots.
As they pull onto the highway, the driver quickly speeds up to 75 mph and Bill has a hard time keeping up with them, at first. By the time he catches up, he’s going 83 and he’s still behind them.
Sheesh, they must be going 90, all the while swerving in all the lanes. He looks at the clock. 1:45am. Good thing it’s so late so nobody can get hurt.
But somebody does get hurt. Suddenly, their car swerves too much to the right off the highway and down the hill. Bill looks in his rearview mirror before slamming on his breaks and reversing to where they steered off the highway. He finds the red of their rear lights, parks his car on the shoulder, and begins walking toward the wreckage.
It’s easy to tell from a short distance that the Ford Focus is absolutely totaled. As he gets near the left rear side, he sees the hood of the car is wrapped around a tree. Getting closer, he examines the two in the back—two girls, necks broken. There’s a human-sized hole in the windshield with blood along its edges on the passenger side, indicating the student flew through the window. Lastly, he looks at the driver—a young man, short brown hair with a varsity jacket sporting the school colors: blue and silver. A large chunk of metal is piercing him to the car seat.
Suddenly, the driver regains consciousness with a shallow inhale of breath, and he slowly looks at Bill.
“Please,” he begs. “Call… 9-1-1… Help us…”
“Survival of the fittest,” Bill says as he puffs on a cigarette.
“W-what?”
“You’re in college. Didn’t you learn anything about Darwin with all the schooling you got? You’re drunk, shit-for-brains. Then with whatever neurons you have left firing, you decided to get in your car and drive drunk. And at ninety, one hundred miles per hour, no less! You weakened your senses with excess alcohol, and now you’re paying the consequences. You got yourself into this situation. See if you’re fit enough to get yourself out.”
The young man looked at him in disbelief. “Y-you’re crazy.”
“Better crazy and alive than drunk and stupid, and soon to be dead.”
With that, Bill finished his thirtieth cigarette of the day, got into his car, and drove off, leaving the football player to bleed to death.
The Lutheran Column 