Paco's fire truck was, in the carefully edited words of locals, "an" [accident] waiting" "to" "happen". Almost as tragic as the twenty-nine people who died, is the fact that of so many prescient people, not a single one was moved to speak out and prevent it. If it had been twenty-eight people, then the not speaking out would have been more tragic than the deaths. As bad as twenty-eight deaths would have been, it would be a terrible indicator of the rampant not-getting-involvedism that is the sole cause of societal breakdown in the inner cities. With that extra death, we must put that aside and focus on the people who died painfully in a way they could do nothing about. They're heroes, and we'll never forget them.
Being the owner of a truck, wood, kindling (which is another word for wood but smaller), matches, a fireproof suit (which is a suit that's fireproof), and a load of thick steel, there were only nine courses of action open to Paco. Any of the other eight would have meant fewer deaths. None of the other eight would have made for as beautiful a photograph as that taken by Paco's wife and costermonger of thirty years. Just remember that before you judge him. In a world where not-getting-involvedism is at an all-time high, and people won't speak out to prevent twenty-eight deaths (or twenty-nine, if you want to be callous and forget the heroes), then isn't aestheticism all we really have to live for (unless we're dead heroes)?
Most of Paco's plan was mapped out in his head. He knew that he'd fill the back of the truck with wood and ship the whole thing across the Atlantic to some port on America's east coast (he'd check prices before deciding which port). He'd then follow the signs to the desert, and set the wood but smaller beneath the wood. If he'd put the wood but smaller before driving to the big boat, then going across the ocean, then driving some more, the chances were that the wood but smaller would move in transit like cornflakes, and he'd have to replace it in the desert.
Paco knew he'd have to stop the truck from exploding and the shrapnel piercing his fireproof suit (and maybe even his spine); he knew the thick steel was his best chance of this, but he wasn't sure how best to use it. His prototypes included surround himself with the steel, and surrounding the fuel system. Seven watermelon heads, seven compost bag torsos, and twenty six baguette limbs later (his left arm is only 71.4% the length of his right arm, and his arms and legs are of equal length), Paco had found the optimum use of the steel. On top of the chassis he'd place two
layers of the steel a third as long again as the truck in all dimensions except towards the front. Behind the cab, joined to these first two layers would be another two layers at right angles, again a third as wide in every direction except one, in this case down. With chicken wire all the way around to hold the fire in when going around corners, Paco's fire truck would be complete. Paco wasn't very good with his hands, so he took his truck, steel and ideas to a local garage. They gave him a discount for cash.
However many weeks it takes to get a car from wherever Paco was in Europe to the American desert later, Paco arrived in the American desert.
"Gosh, so this is the American desert," said Paco adverbiously. "It almost seems a shame to drive around it in a big truck on fire, have my wife take a picture of the flames against the night sky, and then kill twenty-eight people with a big gun and lots of ammunition. Almost." (Paco's wife was bitten by a snake shortly after taking the picture. She died when the ambulance ran over her head by mistake).
(Oh, and the customs officials should have said something when Paco explained with absolute honesty his reason for wanting to enter the country, but I skipped that bit because the ending was the most important bit and I didn't want to waste too much time on the planning).