In stomach turns

We called him king by day. slurred something less subtle by the crook of those spent nights granting the turkey's nest a first and dead end enough times to know that laura's boob show would make us fine dandies so long as we didn't fuck with the pool table (scar faced barricua always watching, waiting for a challenge...chipped shit cue in hand, foam beer spilling on the floor) and we left exaggerated tips for the watered jamesons we'd already polished back at the driggs pad.

Even later, on the orange coach. cracking the whiskey dropouts. posing the menstrual nation fantasy pick (though that was gasperin's pipe, really. i just wanted in for the screaming and t-shirts). killing robots. lighting works and watching the cars go by as our spit and swill rained down the avenue undetected by the drunks who would sooner die than look up and chide us (it was copper they were after, then. a few bucks an ounce at the time).

It was a heroic name for surviving, zombie burns, arrests and all the complements of making it a point to salvage the flaming wreck before it crashed into the shore and the rats were forced to portland.

But it didn't go down. he didn't stay under.

So he retains the title.

Ugly in the Morning.mp3