Fuck this rat-hole.
A sense of superiority permeated Ghengis’s movements as he made his way down the snowy streets of Downtown Minneapolis. Even though he had never been here before, he was sure that nothing from or around this place would ever be as real, as cool, as hardcore, as anything from L.A.
Still, Arnold was up here, and he needed some help.
Of course he needs help, Ghengis thought, that poseur wouldn’t know real rebellion if it bit him in his baggy-ass pants. He was hopeless. The only real goal was doing damage. Damage to the wannabe prince. Damage to this lame ass town. Damage to the whole goddamn civilized world.
He sneered as two ‘punks’ walked past him, sporting mohawk haircuts dyed pink and orange, and chain wallets with baggy pants! His blood began to rise as he contemplated dragging these two into the nearest alley and beating the life out of each of them. How could you call yourself a punk if you hadn’t seen ‘The Pistols’ live…?