Any external or social action, unless it’s based on expanded consciousness, is robot behavior.
It takes five seconds, brothers and sisters.
One . . .
Alfie Vedder became untethered shortly after stepping out of the Highland-green Ford Mustang parked askance, motor running, on Warren and Forest.
Two . . .
He looked up once at the nearest street light, which wasn’t a street light any more given that it’d been smashed out in the riots, and he shook his head, even as he fumbled in his pocket for the Zippo.
Three . . .
He retrieved the bottle from the interior of the car, his partner Tuck saying Getonwithit from the shadows on the driver’s side, sparked up the lighter and lit the rag shoved like a gag in the bottle’s neck.
Four . . .
Rag lit, he stepped and he jogged and he stepped and he jogged and he grunted and he hurled the flaming bottle across the street, a glorious clumsy parabola that he didn’t stay to watch, too busy was he climbing back into the Mustang, sense drowned out in the engine roar.
Five . . .
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