I woke up to the same sunrise every morning, at the same time, in the same house, in the same bed, in the same boring old town. Last night was an unusual night, however, the kind of night that goes into the memory bank to be relived at one’s disposal again, and again, when the treadmill of life seems too weighty to get out from under.

Those drunks were at it again, smashing bottles, pillaging, foraging, skulking about as if my street, was their’s and their’s alone. Their leader, Bill “the cutter” was in a particularly belligerent mood. He was fixing for a fight, and if he didn’t get what he was after, there’s no telling what time of night he and his circle of profligates would be roaming about, kicking up a stir.

These riff raff were the town ‘Hell Angel’s’ if you will. Part of the blue collar class that was left behind by corporate globalized monocultural world, that seemed to be blooming, here in the now of late consumerist capitalism. Bill had worked at the mill, which was no longer standing. It was demolished about nine months ago, and weeds and foliage left in its place.

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