Rollin' dirty [Open!]

[alexander rodriguez]

THE KING

What do you say when you're too fucked up?
What do you say when you run out of drugs?
What am I goin' do when I'm all washed up?

‘And you know what he does wit’ the kids he catches? No? Well, after he had stalk them down that long hallway, he slowly creeps up behin’ them. He puts his long claws fingers across their necks. And you know what happin’ next. He takes their body out into the woods were he eats them. That’s why you watch yourself at night. The only way you can tell he be after you is ‘cus you can smell him. He smell like rottin’ meat and is covered in dirty animal skins.’

Alexander smiled as the familiar goose bumps formed along the back of his neck. They crawled under his skin, invading and spreading. He embraced it, loved it, and wanted more. The lonely hallway was indeed forbidding, especially in the dim lighting and the pitch black night that was kept at bay only by the weak bulbs. Fear was something he had grown up next too. From daring stunts to life threatening situations that he didn’t want, he took it all on. Like two powerful rams, Alexander fought just as hard against his fear as it pounded on him. Except he always won. Well, most of the time. Once on a camping trip, he pussyed out when they left him in the woods without a flashlight, they had told him to find his way back. The thought of the Skin Walker tormented him and he finally started yelling so loudly that they came to rescue him. They could suck it.

‘There have been so many people that have died by the Skin Walker. You know where he lives? I do. Want to know? If you go past that old farm with the broke barn you’ll find a creek. And if you follow it ‘bout a quarter of a mile down you’ll come to a little thicket. In a tipped over rusting car. That’s where he lives. Once I was there and I swear I was being watched. There were deer bones and things everywhere. It was creepy. I was actually scared. Got my ass out of there.’

He was older now and the story didn’t really frighten him anymore. Just to play along in his own mind was what he wanted, to relive the past and entertain himself for awhile. His heavy skate shoes made thumping sounds as he dragged his feet. The lonely hallway wasn’t for his company and it echoed loudly. It was after hours as he knew, but that’s the perfect time to skate.
Slamming the skateboard down on the ground, he began to roll lazily. His arm was outstretched and his fingers lightly rolled across the lockers and door frames along the wall. It was as if they were floating. He didn’t belong here and didn’t feel a part of here. The skateboard listened to its commander and continued to roll for a long time and Alexander lost himself.

Today he was reping his favorite outfit. Baggy straight legged light blue jeans held up limply by a bright red belt. In his back pocket was a thick wallet, filled with old receipts and a twenty. Alongside his useless driver’s license was a picture of his old girlfriend. In the card holders was a debit card, a couple of hotel card keys and a piece of crumbling paper with a scribbled number. He was unsure of whose number it was, but he kept it all the same. As for the t-shirt, he was wearing a loose red Enjoi. The trade mark panda sat happily upon his chest, as if it could leap up and join in with Alexander’s skate session. Around his neck was a black bandanna. He really didn’t plan it. He had left his dorm with it on.

Alexander yawned; he hadn’t made any friends yet. He should been running the school by now, getting shit done. Most importantly he wanted to get shit faced, he wanted to fuck shit up, he wanted to kick down the door and go crazy. Life had turned her back on him and he needed to slap her ass and tell that bitch to make him a sandwich. He wasn’t about to drink alone.

[james owens]

Cold hands brushing over the bass, strumming a hopping rhythm, Ba-ba-ba-na-nooow, now, His little Hofneir hummed. The beat was fitting for James, the way he walked, the way he acted, the way he talked. And then, effortlessly playing the little bass guitar strung by his hip, walking down the halls, it all looked very effortless. Singing a soft chorus of, "He wear no shoe-shine, he got, ju-ju eye-ball... he got, prolly roller..." He stopped singing when the person came into veiw.

That, and the peppy sophmore musician was making it seem more effortless, doing it on roller-blades. The things were fastened to his feet. They were tied tight, he was gliding along on the hard floors. His jeans were fitted, a little skinny at the bottems, but not so much. His t-shirt was half-hidden by a button-up shirt, which was long on his arms and stripped with green and white going up and down.

Ciggie hanging limply from his mouth, his eyes scanned the new persona. Giving him a shifty glance, he stopped the rolling wheels, not tripping in the slightest. He wasn't good at sports, but this was something he enjoyed. That, and ice-skating. It felt good to have the wind rush through his hair, feel the glide of the skates. Freedom, was what it was. Colourful freedom.

The English musician came to a stop, folding his arms when he did, letting the bass chords echo out. "Hey," He said, not faultering the tough look he always attempted to hold with guys around. It was his turf, the music and all, not to be messed with.