Okay, here’s some cool shit. How wide are the planks on the Brooklyn Bridge? That should serve as a point of reference for the size of these ice chunks, which I think only became plural on impact:
So after gracelessly eating shit into a slushbank around one of the towers, my ears are ringing and it feels like I hit my head. How the fuck is that possible when everything’s padded with several feet of soft, wet ice-liquid? Oh. Never mind, it’s just these big sonofabitches falling from the towers, which, according to the NYCDOT, stand 275 feet tall. So I look up.
Ah, good thinking, lad. Now your face is pointing at the sky. Fuck that. Lightning may never strike twice, but if I give that cold bitch Nature half a chance to smash my face into pudding, smart money’s on her taking it. At least there’s this dumb helmet on my head. Meanwhile, the wind’s picked up and these chunks are landing all around me like POW and there’s absolutely no fucking place to hide. Start runnin’, boy! Feels like a game of live-action Galaga in zero-G.
I love my job.