It’s not even 4pm and Leonard’s drunk. The carouser strikes again. The sun snoops through a propped-open door, revealing how awful the empty dive looks. Who was the artist? Only a mind of vulgarity and fury can decor an establishment with such grim latexes and random sketches resembling 80’s album covers of Slayer and Sepultura.
Work called two hours earlier, asking if I’d come in. Of course I will, I need the money. Continue reading