I sauntered confidently up to him as he sat in the kitchen, staring downward at the old console television. He looked powerful and dark, with an air about him that suggested, "All who approach, beware."
His tattoos were of the road-weary variety, etched emphatically into his skin with more conviction than usual. He was a walking revolution. With my hands in my pockets and a smile on my face, I coolly blurted, "Hey, Henry."
Without even turning to look at me, he said, "That's Mr. Rollins to you."
Later that day, I chucked my Black Flag album Read more