Thomas J. Depaola (the J stands for “Judgment Day”) stood in the mirror casually admiring his tattooed pecs. With a cooly calculated flex, the line drawing of Kurt Vonnegut appeared to wink.
“Aw yeah. Hells yeah.” Murmuring affirmations, Tom gave himself another approving head nod before returning to his two 60 lb weights, named ‘Life’ and 'Deff'.
Suddenly, the window shattered, spraying shards of glass across the room as thick acrid smoke billowed. Chewing on the mouthful of glass delivered by this explosive power, Tom stared steely eyed into the abyss of the broken window before spitting a perfect glob of Teacher’s scotch, blood, and phlegm onto the hardwood floor.
The haze filtered out of the room, like cigarette smoke passed through Kotex, revealing a black clad Joseph “Rusty” Sackett, dong handed, depositing a powerful stream of urine into Tom’s wardrobe, soaking his collection of Jack Threads-furnished street wear.
“Ach! Das #fuccboi!” said Rusty in broken German. “Rest in pisse!”
Rusty pulled a metal sphere emblazoned with a swastika from his utility belt and shattered it against the floor, releasing a new cloud of smoke. When the smoke cleared, Rusty was gone, leaving behind a note with "Der juden" written on it in childlike scrawl.
“Nooooooooooooo!,” said Tom, his mighty fists clenched in fury. “Noooooooooo!”
Chagrined, Tom reached beneath the desk his dad built and pulled out his self-flagellation stick, a jagged piece of Ohio wood with nails running through. Pledging revenge, Tom furiously scratched his back.
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