West Coast Chopper Clothing

Schrödinger's cat Who ... Three cigarettes

I pulled the spark plug to the wall to get a better look. A message for me, cost a lot to someone else. The writing was still confused but I was able to understand the meaning ... "you can not refuse bunny." Needless to say that I was the bunny. There was one thing that scared me more than the mangled corpse left on the bed, the four words that sticks in the wall could perfectly describe my state of mind ... a little spark in a world very, very dark. I took a quick look the victim wrapped in the sheets, I noticed that he was missing some parts, and the nausea made me realize that it was time to get out of there. I was not a cop, and those tend to be suspicious if you are near a mutilated corpse while you're busy looking at the wallpaper. I walked to the door, blew out the candle and threw it out the ground running in the hallway. Not taken the elevator but I looked through a window in the hall and jumped on the fire escape. Courses, down those damn stairs, despite the damp of the night made them dangerously slippery. I wanted to run, I wanted to run away from there really, I wanted to get out of the mess of the city, the situation of shit that I had just driven. I paused a moment when his lungs began to complain, and I took the desire to turn one, so as to make them even more angry, stupid balloons. I was not unfortunately. I had to make order in my mind, figure out what to do, how to get out of, how to stay alive above all. Find a place to sell from smoking seemed to me the right way to take a moment to plan. No one was in the street, I began to turn a bit 'to the alleys. The night was laughing at me, pitiless, I could hear it. Began to turn around when the purple light of a sign "liquor and tobacco, appeared to save the crisis. I went sounding the bell above the door. Damned bells made me nerves. A guy on twenty sbracato was well on the chair behind the counter, headphones in ears, loud music, ridge purple jacket and torn jeans with cuffs attached over thirty pins, tattoos fucking written. Serataccia and that was a closed world of music in her pretty irritated me. I kicked at the counter giving the dick, so ... to draw attention. My movement had taken effect, so that he took off his headphones and politely asked me what the fuck I want. Pleasantries aside, and a few dirty looks, I was able to buy what I wanted and not to step on the boy. I left the store and leaned against the wall near the entrance. Finally, I could light a. Doing my impression of breath again ... I was for a good ten minutes to secure the load, and the sound of nothing in my ears at night. I did not know what to do. Even leaving the city would follow me, were people who never gave up the bone easily, but I was the fucking bone. I thought it would be thrown to dogs was a nice gesture on their part. I wanted to laugh ... Two or three puffs, one after another, regained a bit 'of lucidity and I got the idea. An exchange. My Pellacchia unharmed in exchange for something they wanted. I did not have many alternatives, but I was not dead. I took a bit 'out of breath. Now the problem was another ... when some people are pushing you to make certain choices, you realize how their desires can be more dangerous of their intentions. I could think of only one thing that I could share with my life ... the damn cash. I shuddered at the thought of that filthy wooden trunk and I have to look threw into turmoil. It was the thing to do now, was my goal. Now there were three questions to be answered: who, where, how ... We had to go in order. "Who" topped the list and I had half a mind on the person that I would make it clear from the notebook ...

Straming Mario Salieri

Me lit one. It was cold. I wanted to keep both hands in his pockets, warm, however one of the two was freezing. It is not fair, I thought, so I make the rounds ... in his pocket and the other to hold her for a few seconds, then return. Good taste in your mouth, though marred by the slight discomfort in my throat, like a thin needle that poke fun at, to the delight of the damn cold that came along with the unwanted smoke. I was waiting for the tram. I do not like to wait for the tram, but it is better to wait for the bus. Make noise, puffing black smoke, are clumsy, the buses do not like their own. Finally arrived, I had to turn it off, the trip started badly. There was almost no one, perhaps the time a bit 'late, perhaps because everyone had the best about staying at home instead of going around to do damage. Desire to harm, desire for revenge, it was this that had led me instead to leave that night. A fool came up to me telling me that it was Easter and we had to be good otherwise Christ would be pissed off and we would all electrocuted. I told him that there was nothing further of Easter and Christ is always angry for some reason, the spin, the smoke. It may not have digested that one of his betrayed him for a bit 'of chips. That is pulling the cold. Get off at my stop and I was watching the tin can on the track that was attacked by the fog ... I prefer to shoot myself in that way. He lit another. The light of the match was slow to come out, the heat not felt at all. I shrugged and walked down the street, turned into the alley on the right. The stench of garbage He welcomed me wet. Funny how some places seem made just for the scenes that create devon. I went to number 66. By now I was smoking the filter, so I turned off the the wall. The door of the building was only approached, I went. Scale dirty, dripping incessant smell of mold and heated sauce. The elevator was on the ground floor, did not seem very reliable. 13th floor, we thought well, but in the end I went on that trap, will have had at least three times my age. I smiled at the thought that thing was battered less than they want to go that I had. This is the 13th. Actually I did not like at all but automatically I lit another. Hum of the neon light was very hesitant on doing it or not, rubbish bags front of the doors, a faux marble floor now proven moisture. Down the hall was standing still ... the door that I had dragged her here. Inside 9. The scanned instantly. Full of scratches and incomprehensible writings. Do not throw well. I took a breath, then pulled a good kick at the door who gave willingly, it must have been through a lot too. Not any darkness but the darkness with a capital letter waiting for me. You could not see a beloved. It was as if the light of the corridor, although dim, is not able to filter out more than the threshold ... Respect? Perhaps fear of what was inside. There was no trace of the electric light, I'm not surprised. I lit a match true that this time promptly responded to the call. I could not see the details but everything was upside down. Overturned furniture, broken plates and cups, broken table, the pictures, I do not know how, were embedded in the walls. Besides, I was there to teach you some manners. I grabbed a candle sticking out between the pieces and lit it with the last moments of my warm assistant. I turned the corner and walked into what was supposed to be the bedroom. Blood on the walls, but not enough. With the blood had been scribbled. Threw worse. He stood off and good between my lips, I spit on the ground. I slipped a hand into his pocket and felt my package, made me realize of being empty. It did not take ...