The Mural Maker

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He hurried across the ever darkening landscape of rusted sharp metal, ignoring the scrapes and scratches his bare legs were receiving as he knew getting home was the greater priority.

He eventually got to one of his favourite reference points. This was someone else's "base," and it was clearly an artist's. The whole thing was well hidden, but once you circumvented the unwelcoming exterior, you would be rewarded with the gorgeous sight of the most unique, eye-catching art spray cans could paint.

When he first came to find the place, he quickly realised whoever once lived here was long gone; there was a strangely intact skeleton on the "front porch" of the jagged metal hut.

It was still clutching a diary of weird, abstract but wonderful drawings which Thom had long since put back on the inside but not before obsessing over every detail of every page the artist's talents had to offer.

On the very last page, the writing was so small and faint you could barely make it out, clearly written with a makeshift fountain pen and with spray paint mixed with water used as ink.

Thom used his unexplained but instinctual knowledge of English to make out a name, followed by a title.

"Your eyes have been graced by Stanley the absolute don," it read.

This made him chuckle a little. He thought to himself about what kind of person this "Stan the Don" was and whether Stanley was even his real name.

He came to the conclusion that if he knew the guy when he was alive, he would either really hate him or end up working with him for the rest of his life.

It was one of the late Stanley's drawings that gave him the idea of starting his band anyway.

On that note, he was getting late for today's rehearsal and quickly broke out of his flashback to hurry out of the artist's shack and to his temple of doom.

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