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When the bus had shot that final detour, these who are dead was living. Some, now charred bits of unrecognizable meat, stuffed into body bags by these gloryless professionals who is undertakings of the afternoon was greatly appreciated but never recognized. There had been three smaller corpses, all these were always the first to be removed. The regional media had a penchant for manipulation and the team from the laboratory knew better than to leave the more compact bodybags inside the pan from the newscaster's camera. Poor young matters, however, it occured to me that one never gets much older than dead. This is the irony. Thus noone had endured, such a clean accident. An investigation could be started, likely by the bus company. A hearing would be held. The less sensitive families might attempt to sue, making their lawyers stinking rich. And it's well that ends well. Such was my disassociation process. It occured to me that the air was chilly, the ground was wet, and also the terrain that I had been traversing was rough. None of this had mattered before, thanks in part to my fixation on the situation available. But all too suddenly, I wished for my jacket, rubber boots, plus a cup of warm java. Comfort was too soon critical, and I would now feel guilty. However, my guilt has been overridden by the simmulation of gratification that I had felt accountable. And in this confused state I wandered the wreckage, searching for the less obvious clues to the puzzle of matter accessible. The mystery of the matter happened to be the almost nil level of slope and distance the bus had attained on impact with the ground. Driven because it had been in the bridge over, with no skid marks indicating any significant use of the braking system. There'd been a railing, a very stu...