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About May Pen

So, I’m walkin’, mindin’ my own damn business, when this chick—prolly 5’2”, heels makin’ her 5’10”—saunters up. “Hey, big guy, need company?” she purrs. I’m thinkin’, lady, I’d rather skin a bear with a spoon. “I don’t pay for that,” I grunt, deadpan as hell. She laughs, like I’m some chump. Pisses me off. Hate everything about it—fake giggles, cheap perfume stingin’ my nose. Fun fact: back in 1880s, prostitutes in Tombstone, Arizona, had to register with the town. Called ‘em “soiled doves.” Ain’t that poetic? Still stinks like desperation.

Human Error

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But then, I get a call. It’s my buddy, right? He’s like, “Dude, you won’t believe this! The old clock tower on Hilltop? It’s gonna be demolished!” I’m like, “No way! That thing’s been there forever!” I mean, it’s like a landmark. Point-Hill without the clock tower? Blasphemy!

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