An Uncivilized Assault Upon Horseless Carriages of the Future

A Fire, A Fool, and a Fit of Lunacy in Las Vegas

In the annals of human folly, where the wise scratch their heads and the foolish light matches, there comes a tale from the neon-lit sands of Las Vegas—a yarn so peculiar it might’ve been dreamed up by a man who’d stared too long at the sun, or perhaps at the headlines. ‘Twas in the ghostly hour of 2:44 a.m. on a March morn in 2025, when the good folks of Clark County, snug in their beds or stumbling home from the gaming tables, were roused by a blaze that’d make Old Nick tip his hat.

At the Tesla Collision Center, nigh on Jones Boulevard and Badura Avenue, a figure clad in black—looking for all the world like a stage villain who’d misplaced his script—set about to teach Mr. Elon Musk’s electric contraptions a lesson in combustion. With Molotov cocktails, that crude invention of idle hands and emptier heads, this midnight philosopher put two Teslas to the torch, their sleek frames crackling like a Fourth of July gone rogue.

Three more of the horseless wonders caught the heat, scorched but unbowed, while the Clark County Fire Department—bless their weary souls—rolled in by 2:54 a.m. to douse the mess before the whole lot turned to cinders. Five vehicles in all bore the brunt, and inside one, the law later found an unlit cocktail, as if our arsonist had meant to leave a calling card but forgot his fuse.

Not content with flames alone, this chaos champion drew a pistol and popped three rounds into the silent Teslas, perhaps imagining they’d rear up and fight back like mules in a brawl. Then, with the flourish of a man who’d flunked spelling but aced indignation, he scrawled “RESIST” across the building’s front—a word so bold in intent, yet so wobbly in execution, you’d swear he’d penned it with a trembling hand and a bottle of rotgut for company.

Now, the Las Vegas Metro Police and the FBI–roused from their coffee and dreams of quieter days, took one look at this handiwork and declared it no accident.

Assistant Sheriff Dori Koren, a man who’d seen enough foolishness to fill a library, called it a “targeted attack,” while Special Agent Spencer Evans of the Bureau vowed to hunt the scoundrel down. “We’ll come after you, we’ll find you, and we’ll prosecute you to the fullest,” quoth he, in tones that promised a jail cell cozier than a coffin but not by much.

The Joint Terrorism Task Force joined the fray, sniffing for signs this wasn’t a lone lunatic but a chorus of crackpots, part of a queer crusade against Tesla showrooms that’s been popping up like weeds across the land.

Elon Musk, that tinkerer of the future who’d rather dance with stars than dodge Molotovs, took to his X pulpit and cried foul. “Insane and deeply wrong,” he called it, swearing Tesla had done naught to earn such wrath—though, as any student of history knows, innocence never stopped a fool from swinging an axe.

President Trump, never one to let a ruckus pass without a word, thundered from on high: “You do it to Tesla, you do it to any company, we’ll catch you and you’ll go through hell.”

A promise plain as day and twice as hot.

Even Attorney General Pam Bondi chimed in, dubbing it “domestic terrorism,” a phrase to make any firebug pause and ponder his life’s choices.

The locals, meanwhile, rubbed the sleep from their eyes and muttered for vigilance, though one Tesla owner, a stout fellow named King Liang, put it plain: “Enjoy jail, pal. Enjoy it.”

It’s a sentiment so pure it ought to get stitched on a sampler.

But let’s not rush past the meat of this madness, for here’s where the modern mind shows its colors—or its cracks. They call it Trump Derangement Syndrome and Musk Derangement Syndrome, afflictions that turn decent folk into howling zealots, convinced a ballot or a battery is the devil’s work.

Time was that a man who hated his neighbor just tipped his hat the other way and went about his day. Now, he grabs a torch and a gun, fancies himself a revolutionary, and sets out to smite the chariot of progress—never mind that it’s just a car, not a call to arms.

What Musk has wrought with his electric dreams, or Trump with his brassy tongue, to deserve such ire, no sane soul could say. Yet here we are, watching grown men treat a showroom like it’s Bunker Hill, and all for a cause scribbled in haste on a wall.

So the hunt’s on, the patrols thickened, and the good citizens of Las Vegas are left to wonder if their next ride might double as kindling. The villain skulks free, puffed up with pride or trembling in a hideout, while the law sharpens its spurs.

And me? I’ll sit here and marvel at an age where a man will burn a machine to spite its maker, then call it principle.

If that ain’t progress, I don’t know what is.