By: Andrew Dahl

Arthur had time for one thought before the cab clipped him in the hip and sent him pinwheeling out into the intersection of 23rd and 6th, in front of the Trader Joe’s shitheads, and the thought, unfortunately, was “Aw, crudge.” Not that anyone was capable of noting Arthur’s internal thoughts, but he still felt vaguely embarrassed to not even be able to form an effective curse when the moment called for it. “Crudging shut fluckers,” he internally sputtered as the ground flew up to meet him and the Trader Joe’s shitheads clutched their paper bags to their tightly sport-bra-ed chests.

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