Nothing new

His car was literally shattered. Too many long journeys, bad driving, rough roads, excess weight.

It displayed no interest in starting on that final morning of Vincent's mundane life, so he took the small yellow car that belonged to his younger sister. She was 77 now and entirely uninterested in traveling, so it was in good shape. However, it was comically small, absurdly small, really nothing more than an engine on wheels with a seat, which was an issue since Vincent needed the car to transport 600 bottles of beer from the nearby supermarket to the village for the wedding, and he was too proud to admit that he'd made a mistake.

He rolled the small car down the hill so his sister didn't hear it start. Far from the house, he ignited the engine for the penultimate time. Twenty minutes later, after descending the steep curves to the town from the village, he arrived at the shop. They laughed at him as he filled every cavity with bottles, their accumulated weight pressing the car down heavily on its fragile and inadequate suspension.

He paid, ignoring the smirks and hidden laughter, and began making his journey back to the village. The car began to overheat, but Vincent didn't notice. How could he? He was drinking the beers that were piled high on his lap. It was the beers at the back that were over the motor that reached boiling point first. And as the first bottle exploded, it caused an irreversible, unstoppable chain reaction. 594 bottles exploded.

Vincent didn't have time to experience the expiration of his life as the millions of tiny shards of glass and deluge of alcoholic liquid carried it to its dramatic and unpredicted conclusion.

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For V.

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