Chrissy cranked up the radio with one swift twist of her fingers and let angsty lyrics and devastating riffs fill the car and drown out the other cars on interstate 89....
I was nose deep in Jack Keroac’s “Book of Blues,” when I heard the scraping bang. I snapped my head up, as did every other person in the library, to see clouds of dark smoke clawing at the window.
Eyes were widened and met one another with the same question strewn across their faces: what the fuck? I looked to the librarian’s desk just as she was hanging up the phone receiver.
I took a long drag off of my Maverick, noticing the thick dirt under my fingernails, which was getting bad even for me. I flicked my cigarette a few feet in front of me and wiped my hands on my equally as dirty jeans, fully knowing that action wouldn’t do fuck all. I reached into my pocket, glanced in all directions to make sure no one had followed me under the bridge, and started counting the mon...
I couldn’t see shit, but I could smell the rotten bastard on the upper deck—sour sweat, vomit, piss— a punch of cheap rum, that when mixed with the moldy salt air, almost knocked the wind out of me....
It was strange. Each gravestone had a word or phrase on it in quotations. It wouldn’t be uncommon to see that occasionally, but every stone?_ Where the fuck am I_? I thought as i continued gliding between the rows of well-kept memorials. I quickly scanned each stone as I walked, when one stopped me dead, no pun intended, in my tracks.
The stone to my left read in deep, blocky letters: “Motherfuck...
