Blackout at the dump

A few of us were sitting inside the cob house enjoying the cool breeze coming from the Air Conditioner that Lardass had found at the Take and Leave area. It was 90 degrees outside and we were sipping icy Papst Blue Ribbons from 16 oz cans. Bill had his leg bandaged up from his knee surgery and had brought photos of the operation. He was still woozy from the anaesthetic and chugging the PBRs didn't clarify things very much.
"Nobody came to visit me in the hospital," he complained.
"You were only there for an hour you dump fuck." I reminded him, letting out a fine baritone belch.
"Nice one!" Lardass always complimented creative use of body gas eructions.
"I could have died. Nobody cares."
The sad fact is, despite his whining, Bill was right on the money. None of us really gave a fiddlers fart for other peoples' pain or even death. We were all wrapped up in our own petty lives. Our possessions. Our own knees. Our genitals. It was sad, but true. If Bill had never returned, we would have briefly wondered how come no one was whining, and then we would have moved on. I decided to pretend to care.
"Hey Bill, next time you need a miniscus transplant, call me. I'll send Lardass down. He has a surplus of everything."
Before he could answer, the power went off. All of a sudden it was dead quiet. The only sound you could hear was the caloric swish of a stopped air conditioner. The light was out. The radio which had been playing spanish music was dead.
For a moment we just looked at one another trying to deduce what was going on. Lardass was the quickest thinker among us.
"Power's out. No telling when they will get it fixed. Let's chug these beers before the ice melts!"