I can't wait for a zombie attack or the apocalypse.
Riding down desolate highways with my tricycle gang, slung over one shoulder, a shotgun pillaged from Walmart during the riots of '08. A wide-brimmed snakeskin hat rests lazily on my head. A cigar buried under my grizzled white beard between my chapped lips: a dessicated, oozing, and phallic visage.
My tanned, sinewy legs struggling to pedal such a fragile, simple, diminuitive contraption. Black leather chaps absorbing the gashes of the gears with each stroke.
A glutton's rucksack bulging over the front handlebars. No perishables. Nothing but Jameson and twinkies. A few dozen Sears' catalogs. Cigarettes. Koolaid packets. Maybe some clean underwear.
When the day dies, roll up next to a pile of burning refuse and call it a night. Alternating dreams of who you're going to rob next and how karma's retribution will manifest.
And never, ever bathing.
Riding down desolate highways with my tricycle gang, slung over one shoulder, a shotgun pillaged from Walmart during the riots of '08. A wide-brimmed snakeskin hat rests lazily on my head. A cigar buried under my grizzled white beard between my chapped lips: a dessicated, oozing, and phallic visage.
My tanned, sinewy legs struggling to pedal such a fragile, simple, diminuitive contraption. Black leather chaps absorbing the gashes of the gears with each stroke.
A glutton's rucksack bulging over the front handlebars. No perishables. Nothing but Jameson and twinkies. A few dozen Sears' catalogs. Cigarettes. Koolaid packets. Maybe some clean underwear.
When the day dies, roll up next to a pile of burning refuse and call it a night. Alternating dreams of who you're going to rob next and how karma's retribution will manifest.
And never, ever bathing.
And yes, cheap smokes are good smokes, so long as they're not menthol.