CHECK OUT THE ADDRESS
Of course, I had forgotten to plug my phone in the night before, so I couldn’t just punch the address into my phone. I plugged it back in and got ready to set out. I mean, I could have just waited for it to charge, but I knew that I could use some exercise, so I decided I’d walk to where I thought the address was, and then look around until I found it.
I threw on my hoodie and grabbed my satchel. That’s right. My satchel. It’s not a man-purse, not a laptop bag. It’s a satchel. Satchels are manly. And if you disagree, just remember that I’ve killed before. Honestly though, women know what’s up. After carrying a bag around, I couldn’t imagine going back to the days of shoving crap in my pockets. Do you know how many cans of spray paint you can carry in a satchel? A lot more then you can in cargo shorts, I’ll tell you that.
I closed the kitchen window and locked the door behind me, of course – as any criminal can tell you, the best way to stop someone from doing something is to make it inconvenient for them. Anyone looking for an easy score would probably hit my neighbor’s house. He came home drunk almost every day, and his front door was hardly ever closed all the way, let alone locked.
The sidewalks were nearly empty, but the roads were just as gridlocked as ever. I had to fight to keep a smug smile off my face as I outpaced vehicles that supposedly could move faster than any man. As someone who’s lived in the big city his whole life, I’ll believe it when I see it.
The walk was uneventful… except. The Wall. It wasn’t a wall, or even a Wall. It was The Wall. A perfect canvas for my particular brand of urban defacement. I had to paint something. I had to, I had to, I had to…