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It was a crisp October evening in 1994, Pittsburgh. The kind of night where teenage dreams and budget beer collide in a symphony of youthful misadventure. My cousin and I had pooled our meager resources - a grand total of $8.75 - with one sacred mission: acquire a 24-pack of Natty Light, the nectar of broke college-adjacent legends.
We shuffled into the convenience store, our collective purchasing power barely enough to secure our liquid courage. The fluorescent lights flickered overhead as my cousin approached the counter, counting out crumpled bills and loose change. The cashier looked mildly amused, probably having seen countless similar transactions from desperate twenty-somethings.
Just as the crisp cardboard case of Natty Light changed hands, the world outside erupted.
BOOM!
A transformer on the street detonated like a Fourth of July firework on steroids. The night sky lit up in a blinding flash of electric blue and violent orange. Sparks cascaded down like a metallic waterfall, transforming the quiet Pittsburgh street into an impromptu light show.
A brand new Honda, parked innocently beneath the transformer, found itself christened in what can only be described as a torrential shower of mysterious brown liquid. The electrical explosion rained down what looked like industrial-strength chocolate milk, completely coating the pristine vehicle.