Evil Ice Cream
A few weeks ago I came across an evil ice cream truck.
Covered in layers of bumper stickers describing indie bands and George W. Bush, it trundled along a main road in Ybor belching clouds of smoke like an old, tired, post-punk dragon. A blackened snow-cone whirled overhead in an endless spiral, and I wondered if it was supposed to be licorice or just evil, and if it was evil, what that would taste like.
Probably a lot like licorice, I decided.
From deep within its bowels a dark melody issued forth, tiny tinkles of madness and despair, the cries of an icicle being tortured in hell.
I thought, "I could really go for some mint chocolate chip,"
Covered in layers of bumper stickers describing indie bands and George W. Bush, it trundled along a main road in Ybor belching clouds of smoke like an old, tired, post-punk dragon. A blackened snow-cone whirled overhead in an endless spiral, and I wondered if it was supposed to be licorice or just evil, and if it was evil, what that would taste like.
Probably a lot like licorice, I decided.
From deep within its bowels a dark melody issued forth, tiny tinkles of madness and despair, the cries of an icicle being tortured in hell.
I thought, "I could really go for some mint chocolate chip,"