The Gospel of the Bandit King: A Not-So-Open Letter to the DPW

Eyes like black glass, gigantic with perpetual surprise, they relive the last moment forever. Each minute the raccoon who was once like every raccoon is paralyzed, stopping to ask “what the fuck are you, pal?” to the vegan’s Silver Jetta. Its obscene little red mouth wordlessly screams for mercy for days. Then it happens. It twitches and trembles in its once eternal sleep, then understands. It is a thing of nature and the car is not a true beast, so it is only right. It stands up, its breath rancid from three days decay and it whispers into the ear of a mangled squirrel on the sidewalk.
“The Earth will right itself.”
The squirrel stirs, standing up on broken legs, but feeling no pain.
“He has come!” it chatters to its brethren, “he has come.”
“Never will he be sheltered in the Earth! No shelter! No dirt! He has come!” they chatter back, spreading the message to rotten alleycats, stray dogs surrounded by flies and other squirrels with bodies like raw hamburger. They stand up and they march in time. As they throw their bodies at an old lady’s car to run her off the road, the Bandit King looks through the windshield and his eyes glow with epiphany, for he understands the potential of dexterous little paws on a stick shift.