The weather forecasters have been wrong about Boise's weather for the past two days. On Sunday evening, around 10.30pm, the Weather Watcher utility I have on my laptop beeped with an ominous “Severe Weather Alert!”
Uh-oh.
The warning concerned an impending inch of snow on the ground. Yes, an inch. Ordinarily, an inch of snow is nothing to be concerned about, unless you live in Boise and have to share the road with some of the worst ‘bad weather drivers’ outside of Florida.
Floridians have a peculiar reaction to driving in the rain: they freak out. People pull over underneath flyovers and sit there, I picture them, shivering like wet cats. The ‘brave’ ones slow to a snail's pace of 10mph and flip off (or better yet, shoot at) anyone stupid enough to honk.
Boise area drivers also freak out, but for different reasons, none of them fear. I can understand being afraid of bad things happening on icy roads; that makes sense. No, Boise area drivers are anxious more than afraid. They want to get to work or wherever. Now! So they speed up when they should be slowing down. The inevitable occurs with numerous pile-ups and rollovers. The Monday before, 28 semi-retards had crashed into each other along with something like 10 rollovers. The chaos of the mad.
So, an inch of snow was expected, I read. Brace yourselves, wake up at 4am, get to work by 8. The missus and I made the requisite plans. The next morning, at 5.30am, I stumbled forward to the window expecting to see the promised inch.
Nothing.
Bone dry. Not a spit of moisture!
Fuckers! Thanks, fellas.
A graphic of a TV weatherman, bad suit and loc-tite sprayed hair, tied to the stake in front of a firing squad flashed. Many of my friends don't know this, but I have witnessed first-hand, executions by firing squad. I was eight or so.
As soon as that image flashed, I thought of inserting that as the hook scene of a potential movie:
The red glow of a cigarette fills the screen. It glows brighter as a drag is taken and a slow exhalation is heard. The shot widens and the lips and mouth of the smoker comes into view.
Another drag.
More of the face appears and it's that of a black man with a few days’ worth of facial hair. The most interesting thing is this man is blindfolded
As more of him comes into view, not only is the man blindfolded, he is also bound tightly to a stake. The stake is in the middle of a stark courtyard and it is morning.
The man now stands, his arms are bound close to the body. He is wearing a white shirt with ripped buttons, frayed edges and black, tattered pants. He takes one more slow drag then exhales. Now, moving his head sideways with a jerk, he spits out the cigarette. He says, “All right, that's it. Kill me.” This is said with a slowness that belies the horror to come.
Off to the side, a voice of some authority strains in immediate response, “Ready… !” Following, also off in the background, the sound of rifles being chambered.
Silence.
The same voice, now screaming into the morning: “Aim!” This is met by a shuffling sound, ominous in its innocence. A butterfly flies erratically into frame, fighting a morning breeze. In the background, the sun climbs higher.
“Fire!”
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