By S.E. Casey
Blood pours from his brow. His jeans are ripped, a hamburger-like wound visible on his left thigh.
“Here’s your goddamn chips.”
He throws the bag in my lap. I look at the sell-by date and smile. Surprisingly, he has fulfilled his side of the deal.
I crunch a chip with my mouth open so he can hear.
“These are great. Hey, sorry about that leg, Bud.”
Slumping in his chair, he grabs an incident report. “Yeah, well it’s your turn tomorrow, asshole.”
Stealing a glance at the time machine, smoke still trickling out the portal, I shrug.
What is tomorrow, really?
Good portrayal of two punks.