Siren lights were flashing but of course we couldn’t just move. Maybe they should call it a traffic peanut butter instead, but in any case, they weren’t going anywhere with all four tires gummed up. Christ! Our breaths were caught in our throats, you could feel the tension in the air like a fairy in a spider web, the arachnids licking their chops and tying their kerchiefs behind their cephalothoraxes. She (the fairy), was hanging over him, thrashing desperately but only tangling herself further in the sticky strands, his breaths growing shallower and shallower and shallower. Ole Finnegan sure took a tumble now didn’t he, from lively stirring song onto a flat printed page… albeit a page springing with life and twisted with many a meaning, the doors of possibility thrown open before him. All his dear friends were gathered around him there, panicking, praying, and fading. He doesn’t hear you, he whispered, and He never did.
We mourned and the Mayor gave the eulogy, in which he indicted the ambulance for its tardiness that, he said, cost Ole Finnegan his life, with the approving roars of the funeral mob drowning out the pleas and protests of the Paramedics. Put them in prison, he shouted to the people prodding the air with pitchforks. Someone mentioned execution and soon everyone was calling for crucifixion. Still the paramedics protested, but the mob could not be dissuaded, and at the Mayor’s behest three towering titans were raised in the city square with the final date set for Holy Thursday.