St. Louis sucked. Everything about it. The people. The deteriorating infrastructure. The local television news crew. The constant stench of beer and urine. The radio stations. The transportation system. The stickiness. To make things worse, this was the third day of unrelenting rain. It was miserable.
It was surprising how perfectly fitting her name was, especially considering how simple her parents were. Their idea of birth control was a month long vacation by car with the whole family, all seven or eight of them, later there would be nine or ten. They were not bright people. To further express this point, if all had gone right, Patina’s name would have been Patella. They were absolutely crazy for the kneecap, and who wasn’t? It was the late 1970s.
The Seven Deadly Sins by Hieronymus Bosch.
I apologize for starting a story yesterday without concluding it properly. In my defense, we currently live in an age of digression. Against my better judgment, I succumbed. In the future, I will be stronger. I will not allow whim and whimsy to dictate my actions. Without further introduction.
Superbia (Pride) by Pieter Bruegel The Elder. 1577.
Marco Richards was slated for bigger and greater things. He had it going on. There’s no denying it; he was full of moxie and chutzpah. What Einstein was for modern physics (The science, not the latest sex manual from Ikea™), Marco was for humanity. He was the last sparkle of a can of Coca-Cola® rapidly going flat. Sadly, like so many protagonists, he had one major flaw that would deny him from his destiny.
The sound of a switchblade and a motorbike.
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