On my way home from the University campus today, I was blaring the 300 soundtrack from my shitty Tempo, windows down. 

There was a group of chatty sophist bitches; you know the type. Fluffy boots, oranged make-up skin, slightly teased hair, cellphones, bubble gum, and enough lip gloss to glaze a holiday ham. 

Returns a King (track 4, for those who are curious) began to play, heralding my approach. These snooty bitches were congregated right in the centre of the parking lot, proving a hindrance to my leaving. The clouds seemed to part, and Zeus himself shone light upon a massive puddle, directly adjacent to said bitches. Time slowed. My wheels seemed to spin in place as I brought my mighty Ford chariot around the bend, as the chorus reached full timbre. A crescendo of sound and screams mingled into one shining moment as a tidal wave of dirty water was brought down upon their ranks. They were bested and shamed, reduced to the true filth that they were beneath their lacquered appearances. Heads turned; onlookers gawked. 

My mighty Spartan laughter echoed from within my vehicle as I sped away, roaring in amusement.