Chris Tharp

Lonnie said he was the worst fisherman he’d ever seen. “He just had no patience for it. He’d get mad as hell any time he’d tangle or snag up. He’d scream like a banshee and kick at the side of the boat, scarin’ off any fish that may be hangin’ around in the first place.” He fingered the ring of his whiskey glass and laughed a deep, phlegmy rumble. “Nope. The man was not cut out to be a guide. One time he got so pissed off that he chucked his pole into the river--reel and all—prolly three hundred bucks worth of gear. Unbelievable… still, he was a good man. Saved my ass more than once.”

“Priest is okay,” said Grady, pedaling his BMX bike into the dark, “but Maiden rocks way harder.” “No doubt,” chimed in Zeke. “I mean, just listen to Powerslave and compare it to any Priest album,” Grady continued. “It’s fuckin’ night and day, dude. The only thing that comes close Screaming for Vengeance, and still that’s nowhere in the ballpark. Anyone who knows anything about real metal will tell you this.” His scraggly hair flapped in the wind as he rolled along.

"I'm telling you they're fucking cow people -- I'm talking whole families of them." This made Becca laugh so hard that beer came out of her nostrils. James kept his eyes on the road. "You have no idea of how many plates and cups one of these fuckers goes through. It's way outta hand." Becca, still in hysterics, attempted to wipe the snotty froth from her face. "So whatever you do, don't drop out. High school may suck, but it sure as hell beats working at Sizzler."