21.

I step out and crack open my energy drink booze concoction. Some jackass runs past me into the convenience store and bumps me as he enters, making me spill a bit of my precious personal anti-freeze. I stare at the spilled liquid on my hand. It's a bright unnatural orange, like window cleaner or some fluid necessary for machines to operate. More robot analogies, my robot fetishism is showing. The spilled booze has obscured one of the phone numbers written on my hand. That’s one less place I might be living. I lap up the spilled bits on my hand and then I chug about half the can. Orange, it makes me think of the waitress from this morning. I take another swig. I feel the sweet burn of malt liquor. I wipe my mouth and look about and notice a car idling in the parking lot. I walk towards it since I'm heading that way anyway. The police's "Wrapped around your finger" is playing from the car stereo. I wish I had a sweet one word name like "Sting". I'll have to work on that. A shaved headed man with a goatee and a wife beater is sitting in the driver's seat. I try to let my pleasantly humane experience with Mr. Satin Baseball jacket erode some of my prejudice. I take another pull from my orange spew and approach the car. "Hey, you know where a payphone is around here?" I break his concentration and he jumps a little bit. He turns towards me and he makes a face like he just ate a bite of a turd. I’m glad I have this affect on people. He's sweating pretty profusely, maybe even more than me. He completes his disgusted assessment of me and it looks like we got a new world record. Fastest passing of judgement I've ever seen. "Beat it, ya fucking bum", he barks, sweat flying off his chin and cheeks. Wow, that was unnecessary. If I wasn't such a hypocrite about judgment I'd get angrier. The pendulum is shifting regardless of my own discretion however. I sneer and grip the can harder. My sneer is shattered as a piercing BLAM BLAM BLAM rings out. I turn my head back to the shop but I know what's already coming. I've seen enough TV to know what's going on. The jackass runs out the store, black bag in one hand, pistol in the other. He's wearing a dumb puffy jacket with a fake fur lined hood. He's running towards the car and me. I take another long pull off the can and finish the swill. Fake fur. I wonder if he realizes how compassionate of him that is.