Buried deep

Prologue

I still could not believe our luck. Who would have thought we would be able to get our hands on two bottles of Old Brown Sherry! Nasty stuff, but on a cold day, the stuff flowed down your throat like ambrosia. Warmed you up right and proper.

The bergie (slang for a hobo) was a godsend, for only a few bucks more he bought the bottles for us. Being between sixteen and seventeen had its drawbacks, buying liquor was one of them. We all could not wait to be eighteen.

Roger the youngest, but the most athletic of our trio, carried the spraypaint. Tonight we were going to decorate the school. He was the embodiment of the jock, the perfect pupil, only problem was, he liked weed as much as the rest of us. For me his curly light brown locks made him look like a clown...I even bought him a red nose once.

Slash, not his real name, but the name everyone called him, carried the sherry, our insperation and courage. He earned his name for two reasons, one he liked cutting himself, yeah we knew, but we do not judge. The real reason he carries that name is, he is quick with the knife when the need arises. He was never afraid to cut someone if they threatened us and then only if our fists could not pummel them into the ground.

Then there is me, I go by the name Death. I am the death metal addict. The one who likes wearing all the shades of black, with an occasional dash of red. I brought the cigarettes, weed and the artistic skills. My real name, well, it is Charles, but only teachers and our parents call me that. It is just a cross I must bear.

Tonight would be a big night for us. We were about to deface the school, the institution of our misery. It would be epic! Pity none would know it was us, but us. We were known as the three musketeers, not a name of our choosing, but one that stuck, whether we liked it or not.

This is my tale, a tale where my friends carried me through hell and back, a journey that defined us...made us stronger.

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