Flames licked the sky, the reflection echoed in the flowing waters below. It was an eerie scene which sent my thoughts to ancient times; of vikings and burning boats.
The old one lane bridge had a weight rating posted at either end, but that became moot as timbers began breaking away under the intense heat.
I took a cautious glance at Skrimpf. He was beaming. Clearly getting him out of the house was an improvement, but this wasn't what I had in mind. Not even close.
I picked up the case of tequila and pitched it at the fire, only to learn how truly flammable that shit is. Hair singed and in a panic, I returned to our little group. Who's idea was this!?
Skrimpf's sister in law lowered her eyes in shame, his wife looked off into space.
"That's it, I'm going home," I exclaimed.
Freaking pyromaniacs.
They say, "the hardest thing in life is knowing which bridge to cross and which to burn." Such bullshit.
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