This weekend I\'m going to knock off a convenience store for all the cash in the register, a stack of skin mags, and all the microwave burritos I can carry. Overhead fluorescent lights burn like thrusters of some near orbiting starship, reflected in the polished tiles and silent rows of immortal confections bearing the likeness of a fat cowboy. I don’t notice any of this, having kicked open the door and vanished into the night.
Two blocks later I\'ll steal a cheap car and gnaw on the burritos while they’re still cold. I\'ll masturbate all over the mags and then set them on fire in the backseat, strap myself in, and drive the whole fucking thing straight into a brick wall. Why would anyone do such a terrible thing? Because weekends aren\'t just for barbecues anymore, you yellow son of a bitch.
Staggering away from the wreck, I’ll catch the midnight bus to L.A. with the money from the register and the clothes on my back. I\'ll live on Henry Rollins\' couch for a few days \'til he kicks me out. Then I\'ll find an old box of matches and a gasoline can, set fire to something really important, and run all the way back to the bus station, boarding at the last call.
As the bus pulls out of town, I\'ll turn around in my seat and watch the flames dance. I\'ll stay crouched down in my seat the whole trip home, and I won\'t tell anyone what I did. Except you.