It was euphoria when the bombs fell.

Everyone saw them coming, long before impact but far too late for anything productive to be done. Thousands of sheep took it in their heads to flee, but they didn't exactly get anywhere with thousands of cars on the streets, everyone trying to get away. It's not like the streets were actually built for that many damn cars, all loaded down with the hastily scrounged possessions of a fleeing family. So many tried to flee that in the end no-one got out. Just half the damn city viewing the end from their shiny SUVs, pissing themselves in fear as the sky darkened.

Not all were such cowards in the face of the end. Some instead chose to placate themselves with thuggery, stealing anything that wasn't nailed down and smashing anything that was. It gladdens my heart to know that such base instincts are still intact, misguided as they always are. The dead never have found much use for jewellery and electronics.

Some chose to salvage their honour. The air sung with the last gunshots of the desperate and the roads beneath the bridges pounded a sombre rhythm, punctuated by the creaking counterpoint of taught, swaying ropes and held together by the melody of bleeding wrists.

In the end, it only took a few minutes. A centuries worth of prefab slums and architectural wonders brought low in all the time it took to smoke a joint and drain a bottle of scotch. High-rises torn into jagged spikes of metal ripping at the skyline, holes gouged straight through the heart of apartment buildings, towers laid low atop their neighbours as majesty turned to destructive beauty. Everything washed with the ruddy haze of fire and smoke, the last desperate sounds of the city fighting for recognition amidst the crackle of flames and squeals of tortured metal giving way.

It was euphoria when the bombs fell.