24Scratch lay in a ditch, his head bleeding profusely. The morning sun slashed his eyes like daggers through a ripe tomato.
“You f****d up, boy,” Scratch heard a voice say. He cringed at the sound of the expletive. Blurriness gave way to a figure highlighted by the sun's rays. The old Korean man stood in front of Scratch, smiling, showing broken teeth and lips parted with blood spilling down his chin. “You f****d up, boy,” the old Korean mouthed, but Scratch knew that wasn't his voice.
The old Korean man faded away like most ghosts do, but Scratch knew he'd be back, and like most ghosts, they never leave your side, always attached like umbilical cords that can never be severed.
Dozen stood over the ditch looking down at Scratch. He shook his head and repeated: “You f****d up, boy.”
“Do
