IV. Carl

Carl hated this gig. He hated the hours. He hated the flourescent lighting. He hated the goofy salesguy who thought practical jokes were cool and who couldn't see that it was better to be banging one hot chick than moping about another one. He hated the geeky guy's stupid geek toys. He hated the fat guy and the gay guy and the drunk chick and the judgemental bitch. He really, really hated the boss who thought he was funny. So, so not funny.

Still, Carl was never quitting this job. Every day...every fucking day...he got to hang out with Creed Bratton. Creed Bratton! From the Grass Roots! The man was, like, a legend. He had the most amazing stories, even if half of them were totally hallucinations. This guy had streaked in places he, Carl, would never even visit. It was fucking cool. Totally fucking cool.