Chris T. was the lesser of the Mr. T’s. He was part of The B Team — a group of rogue ice cream truck drivers that played Rebel Rouser instead of that crap every other ice cream truck plays. But I digress.
The short story is something like: one Friday afternoon a bunch of ice cream truck drivers were hanging out at the park watching the children and stuff when Chris T. and his band of rogue of ice cream truck drivers zipped past blasting their non-child-luring music. Previous attempts by the ice cream truck drivers to stop The B Team were fruitless, but today would prove to be different.
The first two rocket propelled grenades took out the lead vehicles in The B Team’s convoy, and the ensuing wreck made further explosions unnecessary. “Fuck yeah no more prenup” one driver was quoted as he grabbed 3 of the leftover RPGs and tossed them in the freezer next to the Super Sticks.
The beating leveraged on Christ T. and his comrades made the events at Florence and Normandie look like a relaxing weekend at a spa. That afternoon, just as the sun was seriously considering “eh, fuck it…” the survivors from The B Team (including the aforementioned lesser Mr. T) were nailed to Popsicle stick crosses while Free Bird played ironically in the not too distant background. Chris T. died at 3:00 PM.
It is in Chris T.’s memory that we feed rabbits vibrant food dyes and force chicken eggs through their digestive tracts in the weeks leading up to first Sunday after the full moon following the vernal equinox.
