An exoskeleton had been a childhood dream, borne on the pages of comic books. With pain spiking and teasing all over his upper torso, Dylan Scerbut felt like that dream may have morphed into necessity.
He had double dipped a bicycle commercial straight into a mayonnaise commercial with no sleep, and his boom arm felt like a dead tree branch on the edge of the Yellow Brick Road with three flying monkeys perched on it. The Award Winning (if the Ecorse, Michigan 24 Hour Film Fest counted) Sound Mixer, for the first time ever, was truly feeling his age.
When he turned his well-past-Vicodin body onto 7th he could have shit a deep fried Twinkie farther than Evel Knievel ever jumped a motorcycle.
The Pot of Gold was gone.
Artie Quinlan’s pub, been in the neighborhood so long they called it the Pot of Old, was not there.
There were two crazy things about this:
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