<div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="font-size: 150%; line-height: 116%;">24 September, 1987</span></span></div><br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold"><div style="text-align: center;"><a class="postlink" href="http://i.imgur.com/EoBnXlZ.jpg">[ img ]</a><a class="postlink" href="http://i.imgur.com/PZBbpzy.jpg?1">[ img ]</a><br/><span style="font-size: 200%; line-height: 116%;">WANTED:</span><br/><span style="font-size: 150%; line-height: 116%;">Band member.  Skill with instrument welcome <br/>but if you can't sing then don't even bother.</span></div><br/><br/>A date and address was scrawled under the short print, penned in with a black sharpie.  The paper was slapped against a telephone post and hastily stapled before the boy pushed off again on his skateboard.  <br/><br/>“Nobody is gonna show,” his friend said, rolling on his own board on the opposite side of the street, stapling his own stack.  “These ads look like your six-year-old sister designed them.”<br/><br/>“Who gives a shit what they look like Peter?” Adam snapped.  “We need someone to shout into a mic.  What more do they need to know?”  Besides, he spent all night penning these up.  Nobody else would do it.  Fucking pricks.<br/><br/>Peter and Adam had been friends their entire life.  They had always been trouble-makers.  Grade school was spent playing pranks on the girls and throwing wadded up, dried sponges into toilets and flushing them down.  They often had a lot of free time, having spent many a detention together, and sharing a suspension from school at least once a year.  They learned to play instruments, Peter juggling the drumsticks and Adam picking at a guitar.  When they weren't making noise in Peter's garage, one might find them skating around town with spray paint or otherwise.  <br/><br/>Peter snorted at him and checked his watch.  “It's almost seven thirty.  If I'm late again I'll get detention after school and I'll be late for practice.”  Also, they were the kings of tardiness.  While the other seniors were busied writing their cover letters and applying for university, Peter and Adam were hard at work trying to book venues for their band, lovingly named Buckshot.  Only problem was, they had been sadly unsuccessful since their vocalist, Cady Felton, quit the band after dumping Peter for some rich prick.<br/><br/>Adam laughed out loud as they turned the corner and rounded back toward their high school.  “Afraid of writing a few lines?”  Peter rolled his eyes.<br/><br/>They parted ways at school, Peter making his way to the locker rooms for gym, while Adam stuffed his hands down his pockets and walked in the opposite direction to his first hour class: Chemistry.<br/><br/>“Detention, Mr. Key,” the teacher droned routinely.  The old woman, Mrs Ford, was luckily forgetful, and it seemed to escape her notice that Adam hadn't showed up for detention since the school year began.  He took his seat at one of the lab tables near the back, propped his head up on his fist, and stared out the window as Ford drilled them on the intricacies of the Bunsen burner.</span>