How do you describe yourself? Do you describe yourself by your nationality? Do you describe yourself by your race? Maybe by your name? Who care. I’m here to tell you all about who you are. Nifty right? I like playing this type of games.

It was a warm July afternoon and I was just walking down the street. For one second I thought I never could recover from the fire in her eyes. She was just one angry bitch. Who could blame her… Well I could. She sucks, well not literally but she’s wicked. Not the type you want to bring home to mother. Well not like my mother would approve of anyone I bring. She was quite a devil in disguise. In a matter of seconds I could see another woman; quite the charmer and maybe even an angel in disguise. She had everything going for her and despite my desire for people to live happy I just wanted her to suffer a little of what a normal human would suffer.

I was just a quiet observer but in a matter of seconds their lives changed. It was a car, a simple regular standard everyday cheap coupe; let’s just say it was a Mirage, a Mitsubishi Mirage. The man driving was a black man with dread locks, the man next to him a professor of anthropology in the nearby prestigious university. Let’s just say not only those involved in crash were affected by it. As it all happened I sit in a coffee-shop that stinks of capitalism with a sent of vanilla watching their world go down in flames. This time they were literally in flames. The car crashed with a pickup truck. Some redneck that decided it was a brilliant idea to drink while driving, ironically he wasn’t even drinking alcohol he was just drinking Mountain Dew and the fucker didn’t pay attention to the road.

Crash! I guess that’s how you write that sound. I think it sounded more like a crashcring but we’re not trying to be completely exact here. The three men involved in the crash died. I’m guessing some went to heaven and some went to hell but whatever jar of voodoo they unleashed on those poor girls was lingering in the air. I could see the cloud hovering them; their pretty little noses sniffing every puff of the gaseous poison. It was a riot. So luck comes in a jar of voodoo apparently. Well… I don’t believe in voodoo, but something happened that made both girls faint.

One woke up in a hospital, the other in a house. I could easily tell you the blond, beautiful and good girl ended up in the hospital; the other one ended up in the house of one of the best psychics in town. Me.