I know your type. You're not here for driving lessons.
You're the kind of skidmark who goes to play tourist at serial killers' houses, standing outside staring and rubbing yourself through your pants. You're here to grin inanely at the irony I ended up a driving instructor.
It's some tabloid hack life-fucker who coined "Carbomb," you know that? I make machines break with my mind, sure, but I never did a car. I don't think I can do a whole thing the size of a car. And the closest to an explosion I ever got was a microwave catching fire, when I got my first period.
No, I'd just be a sad fuck with really expensive contents insurance, if it wasn't for that fucking Facebook post. You say online that you wish you could make a Republican senator's pacemaker pop like corn in his chest for what he's doing to abortion care, and that's so obviously a credible threat they wait two whole weeks before throwing a flashbang into your apartment.
I was in grad school. The place I was renting was so small, a flashbang in that space was practically attempted murder. I had burns, you know that? Of course you don't know that, creep. And I'm such a threat that I was just screaming on the floor when they kicked the door in. All those guns and radios and devices and it never occurred to me to do a damn thing except fear for my life, because having shitty powers doesn't make me homicidal—
Anyway. You know they put me in supervillain containment. Cedar Ridge. That place—
...
That motherfucking place.
...
Anyway.
Is that enough for you to get off to? Enough of a villainous rant? Oh, baby, of course you've been recording on your phone. Do you think you're gonna ride it to fifteen seconds of viral fame and literal dollars of ad click microcents?
Your smartphone's a machine, chucklefuck.
