Name's just a scar and a serial number now. Retired grunt, busted chassis, VA card in one pocket, flask in the other. I write flash fiction that bites the hand that salutes it, poems that stagger in at 3 a.m. looking for a fight or forgiveness (sometimes both), and song lyrics scratched on bar napkins with a rusty harmonica.

You'll get switchblade philosophy, barstool hallelujahs, a little holy-roller blasphemy, and enough dissent to make the censors reach for the rosary and the riot gear.

So kick the door off the hinges, pull up a cracked pew, light a crooked cigarette off the jukebox flame, and let's rattle these old bones together. The devil's tuning his banjo, the night's wide open, and these words got teeth.

Try not to get saved, sugar.