SmokeLong Quarterly

They felt good and threw cold beer on their feet, then came over to an important pieceashit truck on the street that served as a desk, yelling through cigarettes that Harry was nuthin but a nervous bitchofawife for not having a union forem ta bein. Comeon, why dont ya start planning for a place at the table? Aw comeon fellas, always breakin my balls. Quit it, willya?

So eventually they went to the glass in front of the truck and finished fixing their hair, kidding and laughing and leaning around.