Poncho awoke with a start, still drunk from the night before. “Where am I?” he asked. There was no response. Like a cornered animal, he sprung from the bed of the truck where he had bedded down earlier that morning. It was cold. He was cold. Poncho soon remembered his late night alcohol infused drug driven strategy, to sleep in the bed of his pickup in a summertime sleeping bag so as to be cold enough to wake up in time to shred. It had worked, disproving the doubts of his mustache friends. He smiled, basking in his own gnarliness, he had won.
When I met up with him that morning, he was arguing with the proprietor of a local bodega. Things had started off amicably enough, as Poncho appreciated the Bollywood hits playing on the gentlemans laptop. It came to a head however, when the six pack of Busch tallboys came to less than ten dollars. There was a minimum purchase amount. Poncho was obviously looking for some sort of maximum. They clashed. As he staggered and argued, much time passed, but a solution was reached when Poncho realized that maximum meant TWO sixpacks. Satisfied with his logic and having taken it to the MAX, the journey began.
Much shred was had, a schussing silence overcame the crowd, it was a good day for GORE.