Leon Kentwood's Scraggled Jeans.

Adrian Saturnius was smoking a cigarette during his break from work when he first met Marcell Laves. It was just another day in the jungle for Adrian, dressed smartly in a tie and a vest, leaned back against the brick facade of his building. Inhaling deeply, he peered into the southern skies, trying to appreciate the natural comfort of the sky. Thinking that Muir would have been proud, Adrian grinned, appreciating how the sky appealed to him as an untamed force, a laughingly proud blue completely unconcerned with Adrian’s puny, insignificant problems.

Stomping out his cigarette, Adrian turned to face his largest current problem. The looming department store stood massively between him and freedom. Packed tightly in the pocket of a corporate business zone, punctuated with do-nut shops and bowling alleys, ATM machines and gas stations.

It seemed that each and every day, something was being bulldozed into a parking lot or bowling alley. A hundred years into the future, and all that will remain will be bowling alleys. For our convenience, Adrian thought bitterly. Free bread and circus to keep the citizens happy.

Adrian reached for his pocket and lit another cigarette. He still had time before he had to go into work, so smoke ‘em if ya got ‘em. He smiled grimly, shielding his eyes from the bright mid day sun. Suddenly he heard the loud THUMP THUMP THUMP of a car stereo rapidly approaching. The bass was turned to maximum volume, announcing the cars impending arrival long before the engine itself could be heard, or the auto seen.

Peeling into the parking lot was a red foreign made automobile. The bass seemed to vibrate the whole car, and as it screeched wildly into a parking space, the wail of guitars speed picking bar chords and a drummer kicking violently at double bass pedals could be clearly heard. Birds scrambled from power lines into the air, old women stopped hobbling and turned to look disapprovingly, and Adrian smiled slightly as he exhaled smoke.

The red door swung open and the music abruptly stopped as Marcell Laves stepped from the car into the bright sun. Grinning madly, his dark hair unkept and blowing in the wind, Marcell reached into his car to pull out his work uniform, crumpled in a wrinkled ball. His black boots crunched over the gravel as he made his way over to Adrian, who had to marvel at the man named Marcell and the way he made seemingly made a living on his own terms.

“What’s up, nigger?” Marcell called out from across the parking lot.

“How you living?” Adrian responded.

“Can’t complain. I think I ran over a dog on my way over...thought I’d be late so I didn’t bother
to stop. Remember; today belongs to us.” He caught the dismay on Adrian’s face.

“No matter,” he said quickly “it was a rotten stray, picking at some trash. Had no business being in the road anyways, especially when I’m late for work.” Marcell stretched his wrinkled work uniform over his shoulders. “Probably belonged to one of those pathetic poor assholes digging ditches across town anyhow.” He added, extending his hand. “Marcell Laves.”

“Adrian Saturnius.” Adrian simply said, shaking the man’s hand.

“Weird fucking name.” Marcel said. “But I dig it. So how’s this place, job any good?”

“Can’t complain when those checks come through.”

“Noted.” Marcel started to button up his wrinkled work shirt. “Got me a boy I got to pay for. Mother’s a real fucking classy job too, god damn skank whore. No matter, her pussy is so dry, the fleas carry canteens.” Marcel squinted against the exhale of Adrian’s smoke. “Guess I ain‘t that late if you‘re out here smoking yourself to death.”

Always the epitome of sympathy, Marcell felt threatened by what he perceived as the inevitable and immediate demise of the culture of youth. Surrounded By Thieves was a phrase Marcell was extremely fond of, and used to describe anyone whom impeded upon his living space or had the misfortune to be caught underneath the stomps of his heavy work boots.

“Well,” Adrian began, smoking his cigarette down to the filter, “you’re not late for work, you’re right on time. Anyways, I’m surprised your goddamn noise didn’t scare the mutt off. I heard you coming from miles away.”

Marcell grinned. His car stereo was something of a status symbol for him, and he always crooned when you mentioned it or complimented the way it penetrated walls or sleep.

“Noise? Shit man, that ain’t noise. It’s fucking art. It’s the new A Gore Aphobe Sick cd; it’s called Raiding Christ’s Heaven with a Hammer. It’s fucking brutal, man.”

The music which Marcell enjoyed illustrated perfectly his frustration and obscure paranoia. Watching the man nod his head in rhythm to screeching guitars, phlegm rattling drums, and humans growling like dogs merely confirmed what Adrian already knew and what everyone else suspected: Marcell Laves was completely insane.

“ It sounds like noise to me,” Adrian said delicately. “I can’t tell the difference between any of those obscure bands anyways.” Adrian tossed his cigarette butt into the gutter as Marcell pulled one out of a fresh pack and lit it, inhaling slowly. “You ready for a thrilling day at the crap factory?” Adrian remarked.

Marcell looked annoyed. The only thing worst, to him, than being a tool of a corporate department store was mentioning the fact that he was a tool of a corporate department store.

“Fuck man. Today better go by fast. I swear to god I’m about ready to quit.” Marcell spat.

“Yeah? Quit? Your first fucking day, and you’re ready to call it a ballgame? No shit.”

“Shit.”

“And then you’ll be back doing…what?”

“Slicing meat.” Marcel responded.

“Naturally.” Adrian said.

Regards, Esortnom