Contributor: Ryan Stevens
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Loud, crass punk rock music rudely awoke Bill Poore on Monday morning. His anarchist neighbors in the next apartment, a bunch of cokehead 20-somethings trying to make it big as a punk-rock stars, were starting practice earlier and earlier it seemed. Bill hated them. He didn’t know any of their names, but he knew their faces, pale and tattooed and pierced with hair colors alternating neon greens and dismal blacks. As much as he hated their music, he hoped they stuck to it. He hoped they stuck to it, went nowhere with it, and all died from heroin overdoses.
These thoughts floated in Bill’s head as he made breakfast in his robe and slippers. He worked nights as a security guard at the local Wal-Mart, and his open eyes were a deep rouge from sleep deprivation, but once awoken he had been unable to ignore the...
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Author:
Ryan Stevens
