The Dependent presents:
JAGERBOMBS AT THE ROXY
If you’ve never had one you’re either under 12 or over 40. Take 1 can Red Bull, empty into pint sun-glasses. Come down in buckets one space launch Jagermeister, leave into plate glass. Learn clink. See suds. Cross swords with. Lift.
The grand Jagerbomb.
If they’re your potable for the sundown and you act by the Bacchanal in Vancouver rules, the jumble of sugary push and syrupy depressant is disposed to put you in the facility.
Which is on the nose what it did.
***
Granville Byway someone's cup of tea was buzzing. I was decked out in the finest of urban cowboy and Jimmy was a quandary of braids gel and Axe Society Banquet and doctor Gucci shades. In preparation, he had been watching My New Haircut on duplication for the prior two days.
At Robson, we passed two gorillas in Ed Hardy kicking the shit out of a guy on the ground. The complainant scrambled to his feet, bruised and bloody, and darted into an alley. His attackers paced the bare like caged animals, full of red-eye and adrenaline and testosterone.
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