With all the commotion of an orgy followed by a group sing along, no one noticed the mysterious stranger treadling the dead horse shoe crabs and syringes littering the filthy beach front. Good choice of sandals on this mendicant. Few needles were getting through the soles, and his chances for living into next year were decent. It was Juan. Juan was a displaced software engineer from Silicon Valley. His catamaran exploded months earlier, a jerry-rigged pontoon had filled with some evil gas, and Juan likes to puff a blunt. His asshole was blown six feet across, and he now wears a bag, inside of a wine skin, but it's a colostomy.
Juan had been told of the music. He too shopped Kmart, and had lived in Westview, Pennsylvania, at one time. There is no honor left. No professionalism. Only a nation of dirty little snitches with a name tag. Juan asked, and was gleefully informed, that it was the Von Findrich sisters who had purchased the very last Adam Levine guitar, when that Kmart store discontinued music. From the day Juan saw Picasso's painting of an old guitarist, he dreamed of sitting on a filthy, polluted beach with an ax like the duffer in the painting. For decades he rented guitars from mean inner city music stores while he took his lessons, skipping lunch for his hour away from his day job at the leather tannery. With each new season, the rent on his guit box would be hiked, and he had to stop eating breakfast. When he completed learning three Paul Anka songs, he quit his lessons, and began his long, agonizing search for satisfaction. For Juan had been told, through his people, that there was an Adam Levine guitar at that clearance sale, and he rode his sting ray bicycle, prepared to tie the guitar to the basket. A Levine, for just 19 dollars and change, drives people to do this desperation. An Maria Von F wheeled her walker into that very Kmart, and copped that Levine that Juan so badly needed. Months later, he got degree, online, worked like a slave in Silicon Valley,and was let go so the company could better steal Juan's intellectual properties. But he was a damn good sport about that. It was the Von Findrich sisters that he couldn't forgive.
Juan had been told of the music. He too shopped Kmart, and had lived in Westview, Pennsylvania, at one time. There is no honor left. No professionalism. Only a nation of dirty little snitches with a name tag. Juan asked, and was gleefully informed, that it was the Von Findrich sisters who had purchased the very last Adam Levine guitar, when that Kmart store discontinued music. From the day Juan saw Picasso's painting of an old guitarist, he dreamed of sitting on a filthy, polluted beach with an ax like the duffer in the painting. For decades he rented guitars from mean inner city music stores while he took his lessons, skipping lunch for his hour away from his day job at the leather tannery. With each new season, the rent on his guit box would be hiked, and he had to stop eating breakfast. When he completed learning three Paul Anka songs, he quit his lessons, and began his long, agonizing search for satisfaction. For Juan had been told, through his people, that there was an Adam Levine guitar at that clearance sale, and he rode his sting ray bicycle, prepared to tie the guitar to the basket. A Levine, for just 19 dollars and change, drives people to do this desperation. An Maria Von F wheeled her walker into that very Kmart, and copped that Levine that Juan so badly needed. Months later, he got degree, online, worked like a slave in Silicon Valley,and was let go so the company could better steal Juan's intellectual properties. But he was a damn good sport about that. It was the Von Findrich sisters that he couldn't forgive.
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