“The more I tried, the more I failed. The president was a stout, round man who had serpents of chest hair hissing through his sweaty shirts. His face was greasy and tan and a message in bold black letters read on his porous forehead: ‘I am all powerful.’ The ‘it’ had grabbed hold of me as well as another generation of youth.”

“The Mortigi Tempo was a silver sculpture of a skyscraper with knives stabbed in it. On the top, there was a man in a business suit with one hand raising its fist in the air and the other hand holding a knife. The man on the skyscraper was obese and round and one customer to the store had commented that the man was a ‘gluttonous beast’.”

“Hey you fucks,” he yelled at the incessantly crying children. “Can’t you shut up for a minute?”

“He formed a band with some schoolmates called The Ripcords, and they rehearsed in the local church on Fridays. While they enjoyed playing music by the Smiths, Gary Numan, and David Bowie, it was punk that provided them with energy. Z played the guitar with such fury that he had to wear special braces because of a severe case of tendinitis. L would come sometimes to the band rehearsals, and occasionally, she would play guitar, but the other band members were not very fond of her.”

“I am a whore. You are a whore. We are all whores. Now the reader may be wondering if we are whores, then whom are we providing our services to? Post-punk millionaires. Punk was the last greatest movement of mankind. It was the last zeitgeist that made our lives worth living, and it challenged the mundane, everyday life that the corporate world was throwing at people.”