The alarm goes off next to Spike’s head. He lazily opens one eye to check the time. “10am already?” He shuffles his hand around the table in search of the snooze button. He rolls out of bed and lights up another cigar. He was late. He shouldn’t have stayed out late last night with Smith. Spike picks up a crumpled piece of mail off the floor. He rips open the envelope without reading its information. “Happy Birthday Spike…” He said while reading the card inside. Remembering that it was the 27th of November and he’d forgotten that he had turned 23 a couple days ago. He hated his birthday, like most days, possibly even more than Mondays. He threw on his favorite Metallica t-shirt, Master of Puppets, and found his black jeans. The faded tattoos on his upper body reminded him of the good old days when he was young, stupid, and never planned past the moment he lived. He picked up his Gibson X-plorer and headed out the front door while he was swinging the keys to his 1970 Charger parked on the driveway.