For three straight days, Rhiannon was isolated by her peers. They could not find it in their hearts to forgive her for dust cropping at the Lollapalooza. She should have known better. Don’t eat Indian food from a grease covered truck.
There are only three things you can truly rely on in this post-truth world: The Chinese straw hat, oxen, and the rain.
Donna Porcellino was pissed and then some. If she were a cartoon character, a steady flow of steam would spew from her ears, causing her hair to rise three to five inches above her scalp. Alas, she was just a mortal composed of flesh and blood, so she was merely drenched to the bone, her shoulders hunched, her nerves tightly wound and knotted, barely containing the angst from within. Her facial expression clearly said, leave me alone or I will chew your head off.
THIS IMAGE HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH THIS STORY! This is just my way of saying Rachel Maddow with a mustache is not a bad thing.
Ezekiel Hammett, sometimes known as Zeke, Zekey, E-Z, or Hambone, put his Cleveland Indians cap on backwards, slapped on too much cologne, and checked his phone. As expected, nothing; but it doesn’t kill you to check, right? He was moving slower than usual. He was still recovering from the constant drain that comes from losing a life-long friend.
This man. This dick. This ridiculous dick of a man. Why, he oughtta…
He deserved to die. No one was made more aware of this than the man himself. When he looked in the mirror, all he could see staring back was something that was the complete opposite of decent. Typically, the word would be indecent, but it doesn’t carry the weight of the gritty underbelly he resides in. It doesn’t define how he is the shit that clumps to the bottom of ones shoe at a formal event, or the last piece of vomit stuck in ones teeth. After a quick introspection, he merely shrugs his shoulders before walking away.
The sound of a switchblade and a motorbike.
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