Surrender

Life is good. You work yet another in an interminable series of 12+ hour days. You get a sandwich for a late night dinner. You plan the annual tribute to the 142d anniversary of the demise of the Southern Confederacy. You plan, especially, a very large toast. Two very large toasts, in fact, one to yourself and one to the men who whipped hell out of those uppity wanna-be cavaliers. You motor down the street, get ready to swing into the homestretch turn to find flashing lights and every species of puffed-up authority figure cramming your street.

So, you make a few more turns, you manage to find a way around the endless roadblocks and get within spitting distance of your destination. Then you’re stopped by another handlebar mustachioed knuckledragger with a radio and a sorry attitude. Turns out the hippies/Mexicans/potheads/crack dealers – or whatever style of undesirable lives in the slum next door to me these days – burned out their friggin’ apartment.

Thankfully there was no damage to my building. Thankfully it’s cold, so the windows were closed and my pad doesn’t smell like a late summer barbeque. Thankfully the lights, noise and authority figures managed to pack it up and move on their way before I was really ready to settle down. I just don’t have enough bullets for all of them.

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