Copyright © 2007 by Joseph M. Quarles. All Rights Reserved.
His few friends call him Slither. He has a tendency to lurk about wherever he is, subsequently creeping people out; He gets followed by store detectives when he has done nothing; Women think he is nuts, but not in a cool way. He seems to be in constant flux with depression and is socially spastic. He deals with this by drinking too much, escaping into his raucous punk and crunch music, and cutting his college classes. Since he awoke this particular day, he has changed into dirty jeans and an old maintenance shirt and gathered up his tools. He is going to work on his hot rod, a 1972 Buick Grand Sport.
Slither heads out to his dilapidated two-car garage, tool box in hand and marvels for a minute, wondering how the structure that has all the appearance of two drunks holding each other up is still standing. Stepping inside the garage, he peers at his black Buick, appearing for a moment like a dusty panther hiding under t