Chillin’
Bricks, cement, metal. It surrounds us; brown bricks, black pavement, gray cement walls, and metal fences. Slowbomb is like an underground prison in many ways. Somebody—the devil—dug a hole, built eight seven-story buildings, then sent us to live here.
School’s officially out for the summer and it’s hot, even after the sun has gone down. My summer job hasn’t started yet. In the meanwhile, any and everything will do to pass the time.
Me and Kenny are sitting in front of his building, sharing a small five-dollar meal: French fries, two egg rolls, and, to wash it all down, two gutties, aka fifty-cent sodas. This is fine for me, because I ate at the school barbeque earlier, but this is probably Kenny’s first and only meal today.
I hear two people yelling and cursing. Some guy come
