Jimmy
Jimmy By Magnus Sallagrimsson This was work. Fucking. Jimmy . Rob wasn’t in this life, running a crew to do real work. Rob Foley was in this life so he could live large, get high, get laid, get a crib, get respect. He was a boss, not some jerk-off labourer. But here he was out in the bush getting sweaty, getting dirty, getting mosquito bites, all after running around scrounging like a skid, junkie fuck. Fuckin’ work . Fuckin’ Jimmy . It was chilly in the early morning, and the camping lantern offered no warmth, but digging was hot work. The old quarry was five kilometers outside of town and led to a currently out of service forestry road. There were farms in the area, but nothing too close. The forest and underbrush closed in dense and tight, he figured it ought to be enough to conceal him. No one worked the quarry anymore and it was the place Rob and his friends had partied all through high school, and even after they’d all quit school two years ago. The cops knew the place, of ...