Brett Pribble Freedom Penis
Mike, not Michael, squeezed a black marker in his blazer pocket in preparation of drawing the penis that would change the world. As he shoved through the crowd, a punk rock band fired up the Orlando pub. They were just posers, accepting cash for tickets in the American oligarchy. Their music wasn’t brining revolution. Mike had to destroy the system piece by piece—starting with this pub. That’d teach Wall Street and his upper class suburban parents a lesson. Who they hell did they think they were making him take piano lessons? Drawing the freedom penis wouldn’t be easy. Skinner, a longtime lush Mike placed somewhere between fifty and seventy-five years old, spent every Saturday night in the pub bathroom. No one understood why. Some guessed it made Skinner feel important, but bar regulars accepted it. His bathroom patrol had become a novelty that people visited the pub to experience. Mike nudged the restroom door. A hipster with a blue mohawk was at a urinal, and someone else was in the stall. Skinner sat on the ground with his head against the sink. He’d thrown up on his No Fear t-shirt, and his camo shorts were stained with piss. He winced up at Mike through dirty glasses, which he’d taped back together on multiple occasions. “Urinal’s free, kid.” Mike glanced at the empty stall next to the guy with the mohawk. “I got to do number two.” He raised two fingers as proof. Skinner nodded. “The old number two, eh. Pinching one out. Dropping a bomb.”