1987 was a horrible year for me, hard times, harder bad times. I was left as small brown stain on a wet doorstop in Los Angeles waiting for either a ounce of pity or a bullet to the head, the door of fortune slamming shut right before me as I waste another sleepless night laying there, craving anything at all. I could hear the cop sirens, i knew it was time to return but i just didn't want to. I wasn't ready. Compared to in there anything was better. But i knew this wouldn't last. I got up and walked to my fate, stepping into the car. sirens blazing as it returned me my house of misery. Slaving away at what ever menial task they want me to do while eating the slop they serve on the day to day. My only reprieve was Saturday, and my friend Bruno. We spent our days together out behind the cafeteria, smoking smuggled in cigarettes, and talking about what we would do after we got out of here. Where we wanna go, who we wanna meet again. Bruno never got to see the light of the free world. He died of lung cancer after just one too many cigs. A rotten way to go, but fitting for such a rotten man. Two accounts of murder is what put him in, but he never did tell me who. Not that it mattered. As for me, i wont tell either, my crimes will die with me. There's one thing that wont die with Bruno. His famous pilk recipe!


1 part milk

1 part pepsi

1 part cup

1

1 marboro

Put all the contents in a bowl and stir until crispy brown! You'll know when its done, enjoy!