A few days before the firestorm hit the cities, PunkArse was walking Sodom's streets. He had a problem.

Lately...well actually, for the past year or two, he had yet another reason to be more than his usual surly self.  The wall was coming for him.  He knew that - unlike other dudes his age, and older.  For sure, he wasn't looking forward to his 19th birthday.  Yikes, soon he'd be EarlMC's age...and speaking of the he-hag, Punk spat out a laugh.  EarlMC was so deluded, he thought he still had it, was still the bell of baal's ball.  And such a liar, Earl would be telling everybody his hair and nails were done over at...Upscale's?  Punk wasn't sure, might be the other pseudo-high-end place.  But one thing for sure, two rather shabby buildings from him, Earl emerged - first looking left, then looking right - from none other than Kresgeez Hair and Nail.  On the way out, a scurrying middle aged woman had inadvertently - though, only momentarily - blocked Earl from an embarrassing encounter.  

The aging, rather poorly dressed woman didn't want to be late for her appointment.  Dear Reader, you might want to know why women, who can barely make the rent and put food on the table, can somehow afford to get their nails done - after all, for a fraction of the cost of just one appointment, decent nail polish (not the crappy cheap stuff) is sold in about any drug store.  Well it goes like this:  when you're poor, having nice nails is about your only luxury; and when you're scrambling between two crappy jobs, and living in a dingy, cramped apartment, there's neither time, nor space, to just sit, and allow two coats of polish to dry.  One coat doesn't get it - actually three coats is better.  

Okay, back to the story.

While Earl never did anything to Punk - in fact barely knew him.  Didn't matter to Punk.   Punk was the sort of person - like so many - who got his cookies off, kicking someone, anyone, who was down on their luck.  And yeah, Earl was post wall - once hot, his 25-some years...proclaimed, eh, not.  Just when Punk was going to let loose a mean cutting statement - boy, he prided himself on those; had a talent for making people feel like ... crap.  Anyway, he collided into some old guy.   Both were knocked to the mirey street. 

Punk was livid.  The purple keds, the ones he had just 5-fingered from wally world, just two days ago, were ruined - spattered with donkey poo.  Punk hauled off and punched the old guy right in his jaw.

"Sh*t!"  Punk exclaimed, adding a few more obscenities.  Right before him, the sign read, in big, bold, black letters, "CLOSED!"   Well, so much for visiting their friendly neighborhood wally world.  Punk looked down at his feet; the left leg of his trousers weren't looking smart either - that donkey must have been fed something nasty.  

This wasn't good.  Sure, the urchin look was passable at 14 or 15, but definitely not at 17 or 18.  Though he not quite wall, still was definitely close enough to see the mortar.  He wanted a lite beer and a burger, but he had only enough money for one or the other.  He wanted both.  He made up his mind to do two things.  Number one: he'd find where that beech was hiding her money (his mom had long since only breadcrumbed her wallet). Hoe thinks she's wise, eh, Punk grumbled, clenching his fists.  As for number two, he walked past a certain bar - changing his mind about smoozing for a drink, in that place; dudes in there were old, and fat - and the word was, more than one of them were into "threesomes" - two men and a dog or a pig.  Eh, no thanks.

As for Cold Springs, a joint nearby?   Punk shook his head.  That place was a twangie nuisance; the men in there were known to buy drinks for, eh, women.  That's just sick! Hmmph, bet Lot, that uppty council-dude - who's not even from around here - had something to do with that place being allowed to stay open.  By baal's pecker, what's this world coming to, anyway?  Punk muttered, shambling along.