A beat up old Camaro pulls up to the gas station, playing Bon Scott-era AC/DC, and a beat up old dude gets out. He was wearing clothes, I’m certain, but all I remember is his hair.

His hair was a monster of a mullet. It was like if Jesus had a mullet, startling and majestic.

This walking anachronism stands up out of his car and looks around himself with a grim determination. I could hear his thoughts. There’s asses gonna get kicked right here. Any second, and he was going to start breaking someone’s face with a bloodstained Mega-Gulp. He turned and walked into the gas station, as I’m sitting in my silly little riceburner, mouth agape.

I lit a cigarette. Minutes passed. Eventually, I decide that he wouldn’t appreciate me giving him the eye when he walks out. I got the hell out of there.

I spent the rest of the day thinking of mullets and the men attached to them. Men doing Bitchin’ things in the invisible parts of gas stations; things that I’ll never understand, nor be privy to.