The Wax Conspiracy

Bonfire this casualty, screams for food and spectacle

Grabbing a head start on the peak hour traffic, one lone man surrendered his hatchback to the shoulder of the Western Distributor breaking on to the Sydney Harbour Bridge. With no actual shoulder to speak of, cars behind—towing drivers half-asleep with ears copulating mobile phones—slammed into the right lane, took up fists and continued careening onward up the freeway.

Billowing like the adjective only knows how, smoke slithered out from under his hood. Seconds obesified into minutes as the slither of off yellow soon turned into a womping pillow of solid white, enveloping the entirety of the vehicle. Standing atop and with his shirt and pants removed, the man gestured toward the oncoming traffic with one hand while cradling an acceptance from the heavens in the other. Like watching a maestro commandeer an orchestra from their sleep, the man danced a jig as the sirens of the fire department screamed ever closer.

Setting up an altar in quick movement, the man's chest was then adorned by a holy symbol of no prior significance. Charred amongst the remains of the smoke-riddled, flame-free contraption, his milk curdling chants to an unspeakable Allah brought the firefighters to their knees as they slammed and popped the hood of his car.

Underneath, they discovered books and magazines of a literary sort. Books filled with smoky images and hazy descriptions clouded in swathes of imitation margarine. Further investigation into the subject matter turned against fruitless efforts as the driver then carjacked an onlooking driver, dozy from the workday, and sped off across the Bridge.

Ethan Switch

Written on Friday, 18 March 2005

The Wax Conspiracy

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