The orange jumpsuit and grease-slicked hair

The orange jumpsuit and grease-slicked hair made my brother look for all the world like the worthless punk he was. His nonchalance pissed off the judge enough that

he declared my brother a flight risk and took away his passport. Normally this would barely phase him, but he'd developed and adversarial relationship with the DMV, and had no ID

that didn't contain a mustachioed portrait of himself. There was the fancy, curly, waxy one. The Steve Harvey push broom. There was even the Hitler, but he never

showed that picture of himself for fear of being branded a white supremist. Maybe tattoo models and motorcycle builders could embrace nazi symbolism without being shamed, but he

could not. His one-eyed, one-legged, tattooed grandmother would never have allowed him to go out in public like that. Instead, she always told him to

remember to wear a condom and not make the same mistakes his

uncle had made when things got out of hand in the living room Soul Train line. His peculiar looking cousin Festus was the result of that accidental incestuous coupling. Never again

would he single-handidly drink the conents of his hotel mini bar. He couldn't remember checking in, let alone

As he downed the last bottle of Jack, his stupor became so deep that the image of his first love came to him. As she beckoned him nearer, he joined her - by pulling the trigger.