It was a pleasure to piss on the world—piss on the Flashback. To stand at the edge of the W. Rosemond Avenue Bridge like you were mounting Gaia herself and let it pass: the Session Premium Lager or Pabst Blue Ribbon or Miller High Life (depending on the night); the Blue Moon or Genesee or Carling Black Label—which sat on the stomach like eggs. To just piss on the whole catastrophe—defiling it right back—as the Charger grumbled and spat and its stereo played AC/DC’s “Ride On”—bluesily, smokily, loudly, because that’s how we rolled.
“It wasn’t there last night, I’m sure,” I said, finishing up. “I mean, something that size—one of us would have noticed, doused or no. Don’t you think?”
“Beats me,” said Clinton. “I’m just here for the lols.”
I approached the large, metal sign (which had been
