Spring, 1977.

In a thick southern accent slightly turned by recent tinges of urbanism, Ellis, a sphinx of a fainter brown hue with tattoos all over would twirl his crowbar between his fingers, his forearms surprisingly conditioned.

“Howdy. Name’s Ellis.”

He had wraps over his left forearm and bandaids all across his exposed, scarred upper body, his jeans sagging a bit, his waist on display. One might notice that, despite all the bandages and scars, the boy seemed relatively healthy; his forearms especially well-toned despite his generally slim build.