An Old Bulwar Litton entry
I opened the freezer door and was hit with a smell like Boston Harbor at low tide after a fleet of heavy-laden fishing boats missing for six months drifted in from the Bermuda Triangle and collided with an oil tanker that had only moments before severed both the main sewer line and a natural gas pipeline, both of which were set ablaze by the overloaded pickup truck that drove off the heights of the Tobin Bridge when its axle broke, the two dozen Cambodian refugees who, only a moment before, had been warming themselves in makeshift fire from some wood they found lying around, now desperately clutching at the edges of the rusted-out washer, the dryer, the sofa with the torn leatherette upholstery, a couple worn out truck tires, the dogs, the chickens, the terrified driver, and each other as they slowly fell that great distance with what must have seemed a cruel lack of urgency.
