Vague yelling

A cold June afternoon. I saw him at the beach, buried up to his shoulders. He went and stole my shoes, he cashed in all my dues. My blisters make me feel like sinking. "It's hard to walk with blood on your feet," I told the king. Now my goal is clear. I have nothing here. I'll have to kill the king of rock 'n' roll and put his head on my front porch for everyone to see. It'll be quite a scene

Warren, Michigan, 1989. There was a dirty, depraved truck driver named Mike, he preyed on hitchhikers for the pleasure of it. People in the town knew to stay away, but strangers were hopelessly ensnared by what could only be perceived as a certain wry charisma. He always knew the right things to say. He was thoroughly repulsive and unquestioningly crude, but naturally nobody knew what they were in for. Mike was a smart man, just misguided. And he liked to do things that were unacceptable. He didn't just rape and kill his victims, he'd hang them up from the walls of his house with fishhooks and dress them up. Mike was a real sick bastard and a son of a bitch fuck, no one liked him. He also owed me a lot of money, as he did the entire town. Mike had a family, he was abusive towards them both, particularly his only son, Jeffrey. Jeffrey was pretty unpopular at school, needless to say. Where's the punchline? He'd certainly been born with decency, a code of values. He was admirable in his own right, a decent fellow. The town lived in fear of Mike. Mike had no sympathetic friends of his own to share things with. His wife spent her days in a vegetative state due to a tragic accident that he had caused. He hocked loogies on her balding head and spent the days prowling, while his wife lay in catatonic humiliation, watching daytime soap operas. No one knew where Mike went wrong. He'd had such a bright and promising future. People had appreciated him, he was gonna change the world. Mike had a bit of a smoking problem, he averaged seven packs a day. He'd grab his son, his only son by the shirt collar, he'd look at him, stare him in the face and say, "Where my reds, boy?! I know you been hiding them. I could use a smoke today. Where've you got my reds, boy? I won't ask you twice."

He was a child of fortune, his chest never swelled with pride. Calm beyond his years and mature, like the snakes that grew from his head. He had naturally been jealous. His sickly body worsened by the day. There was nothing at all worth looking forward to. Mislead by vague coincidence, the snakes were cut angrily. It was no one's fault in particular. The question numbed his brain. In spite of better judgement, no one is ever serious