Two snappers, a maniac, a neo-Nazi and his bitch-ass brother
Fiction: Sounds like a bizarre fascist seafood menu, but it's instead a fictionalized story about lessons learned.
Once upon a time there was a group of funny looking spiky-and-dyed-haired friends who drank too much, used too many drugs, who fucked around too much and didn’t learn their lessons.
Let us continue.
It was night. There was a moon up in the sky somewhere. Clouds too.
It was relatively warm to anyone who wasn’t from the San Fernando Valley.
But if you were from here, it was typical. The days were often hot—80s, 90s and even above 100 degrees. But then at night and early morning it would drop down to the high 30s or low 40s.
The Valley is like the neighborhood homeless schizophrenic, insane but predictable and ultimately accepted.
So there we were. A group of punks from the poorer neighborhoods of the Valley hanging out at Shorty’s house in one of the Valley’s nicer neighborhoods. Probably Chatsworth. Maybe even Porter Ranch. Not Calabasas though. Places where porn movies are filmed, where C-list celebrities live (and probably stream their locally-sourced porn movies after they’re uploaded online), places where the swimming pools are always warm and clean, homes where ugly and expensive French bulldogs have more stable and fulfilling lives than the poor brown kids at the other end of the Valley.
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