so why not, he thought.

the vinyl dashboard of his brown station wagon roasted under his drumming fingertips, the driver side door chiming the 'im open' bell. the door of the bank, shone w/ a mirror like finish in the noon sun. there wasnt a cloud in the sky, no wind to speak of. a paper bag rolled over itself like tumbleweed, coming to a stop next to the mans scuffed left foot as he sat, half in and half out the station wagon.

he smiled, and polished off the suds in the bottle of miller genuine draft, and reached down for the paper bag, sliding his bottle into it.

standing up, he walked over to the door, pulling his ski mask down over his sweating face. the door of the station wagon chimed in the now silent parking lot.


<---- til its over. 1986. WE REMEMBER


Mzungu Aende Ulaya — Mwafrika Apate Uhuru