Around 2am the other night, some madman came barreling down Capp Street, tires a' screeching, slamming into what sounded like no fewer than countless cars.  This was the scene of one collision, with much of its plastic paneling on the ground.

But good samaritans were on the scene to call 911 and record plate numbers, bringing rightful justice to someone who clearly can't drive for shit.  And even better?

The vultures were there to swoop in and offer up their bone-picking services.

(I also had the exact same thing happen to my old car on the same block of Capp in the middle of the night years ago.  Only no one was there to record the plate number, thus sticking my insurance company with the $2,700 repair bill.  I ditched that damn car two weeks later, leaving only to worry about bike thieves and shit drivers turning my personage into a hood ornament.)