Razorcake Issue
PO Box 42129, LA, CA 90042 www.razorcake.com #20 slow down a bit. It didn’t. We walked through the slight drizzle and :07 AM, approximately, Austin, Texas time. The phone saw a line, four people wide and a block long, for the show we just rings. It is not my house, and the phone is in a locked room. left. We passed Beerland. That was our fatal flaw. Mere yards away “Hi, this is Randal of Beerland. I have one Reverend Nørb was an almost silent, probably chunky, call for help. Clouded 22 judgement and brains pickled with two-dollar Lone Stars tallboys passed out here, looking for a ride home. Someone has duct taped a Briefs’ seven-inch to the front of his Good-n-Plenty pajamas as a prevented us from rescuing a friend. bribe, but there aren’t any takers. Please pick up the phone.” Toby and I took a taxi (a one in two hundred chance. It was I felt a pang of remorse, and I still feel bad. I’d left a soldier out Chris, the drummer for J-Church. Go figure.) to Ben Snakepit’s on the battlefield, barely armed. I’d failed in my duty. Usually, I’m home. the guy throwing up and passing out, wondering where my socks Two hours later, Nørb was a wastrel, passing out on the curb have gone off to, and looking at the bib of not-so-dried puke down outside Beerland, our unofficial home away from home. It had just my shirt. Unofficially, I was “the responsible one.” closed for the night.
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