Triceratops Traffic Jam

The asphalt shimmered under the oppressive sun, a mirage promising escape that was, in fact, the very heart of the problem. Dr. Aris Thorne squinted, his hand shielding his eyes as he surveyed the scene unfolding before him. It was, in a word, biblical. Except instead of plagues of locusts, they had plagues of triceratops. A veritable stampede, or rather, a ponderous, low-rumbling herd of them, had decided that the I-95, that most sacred of human arteries, was the ideal location for a mid-afternoon siesta.

Cars, in various states of disrepair and abandonment, were piled up like so many discarded tin cans. A minivan, its hazard lights still blinking pathetically, had a dent the size of a small moon where a particularly portly triceratops had evidently used it as a scratching post. Further down, a sleek, expensive sports car was wedged precariously between the legs of a behemoth, its driver undoubtedly contemplating the existential dread of being a speed bump for a Cretaceous creature.

"Remarkable," Thorne muttered, his voice a gravelly rumble that was almost lost in the cacophony of honking horns (a futile protest against the inevitable) and the deep, sonorous bellows of the prehistoric herbivores. He pulled out a well-worn notepad and a pencil, his academic curiosity momentarily overriding the instinct for self-preservation. "Note the apparent lack of aggression. This isn't a charge; it's a… social gathering. Fascinating."