Example # 3, too much exposition in Examples of flashs past

The kid called himself Marlboro Black, front man for one of those shoe gazing bands. Scrawny ass punk, dyed his hair black, had a tattoo of an inverted cross with a spike over his left tit. The bass player was this little fire plug, looked like the chick from Romeo void, cast a quadrant shaped silhouette in the blue spot light. It was some little town just south of the heartlands; the landscape and the name are similar. The kid drove the bass home after the gig. They stopped in this corn field to make out. That’s when I took him out. She had to make a big deal about it, so I took her out too. Paid the same but saved me some grief.

A chain is only as strong as its weakest link; that’s why I use rope. For your average guy fishing line and duct tape will get you in or out of my problems, easier to carry too. I’m not saying you need to keep it on your person or anything, cops and TSA’s hate shit like that even though they can’t tell you exactly what they think you’re going to do with duct tape and fishing line. TSA’s want lint and pocket change and cops’d just as soon ya had a bowie knife and glock so they’ll feel smart for checking you. Think of those guys like you would a bunch of guys you were playing poker with; the smarter they feel the better your odds.

The first wife didn’t have a clue, still doesn’t. She’s knows I’m an asshole, but shit strangers on the Ell know that. It’s not like I’m the only guy who ever married without full disclosure and there’s got to be a lot who divorced the same way. Sure, you got your dudes who get caught with their pants around their ankles, or wind up getting pinched and doing a nickel upstate, I mean what do ya do “Honey I’m going to be at the office for three to five depending on behavior”? Me and her we just fought, sort of like moms and dads, one bitchs about the TV the other about being out of beer, or the kid needs braces or the landlord is flashing his pecker again, something, some damn thing and you find yourself in an even shittier apartment eating Mac & Cheese over the sink listening to Country Western songs at two in the morning.

I had this buddy for a while that was a vampire. Shit, I don’t know if he was a real vampires, I’m thinking probably not because, well, shit, there’s no such thing. Depends on what story you want to follow the thread of, but if those fuckers turned ordinary people every god damned person you knew would be a vampire, and if they didn’t, well, shit there’d be a stack of bodies or bites that’d need accounting for. Anyhow, this crazy bastard did bite and I think maybe he did suck in a bit of blood, but Christ we were pro’s. Doesn’t matter how you leave the body if you leave it somewhere it ain’t getting found. It was a little creepy working with the son of a bitch, and talk about things your old lady doesn’t know, but he never bit me and he picked up the bar tab as often as not. He got out of the business when he died which, again depending upon which myth ya like, was a pretty sure sign he wasn’t really a vampire. One good thing about working with him is no one even thought about stiffing us on a gig.

Still, it’s easier to be alone. No wife, no partner, nothing to keep you from just going when going needs to be got. No secrets that way either. Not that I can’t keep a secret or I have any moral compunction about lying, it’s just easier not to be on all the time. I whack a motherfucker or two grab a six and a burrito come home kick my feet up and pop in a Looney toons tape or maybe a Clint Eastwood western.