Paul dismounts to reenact Andy’s fumble. He juggles his hands and skips in place, then freezes to watch an invisible matchbook cut a slow arc across the sky before dropping down the storm drain.

Hector raises his hand in the air and Paul slaps five as they both laugh.

Andy drops the die in his pocket, trying not to laugh at himself, and, failing, honks and snorts through his nose.

Paul picks the still smoldering butt from the ground, takes a drag and passes it to Andy to finish off.

– Here, spaz, put this in your mouth and stop that fucking noise.

Andy pinches his fingers over a slight tear in the paper and takes the last hit, sucking the smoke into his lungs, feeling it burn, but not coughing.

Paul grabs a fistful of Andy’s hair, jerking his head back and forth before letting him go with a little shove and a slap on the shoulder.

George rides up, kicking out the rear wheel of his bike and skidding to a stop.

– You fags done fagging around?

Paul gets back on his bike.

– Fuck you, queerbait.

Hector stops messing with his chain.

– We were talking ’bout fucking your mom.

Andy pats his pocket once and flips up his kickstand.

– Is it sketchy?

George is standing up on his pedals, fingers wrapped loose around black rubber handgrips, balancing perfectly on his chrome and gloss black Mongoose.

– Yeah, it’s sketchy. Let’s go rob it.

Part One

Piece of Shit Bike

It started with Andy’s piece of shit bike.

– What the fuck were you doing not locking it up?

– I just went in for a second.

– I just went in for a second. How long do you think it takes to steal a bike, dickweed?

– It was right next to the window.