<strong>NAME:</strong>Jonas Motherfucking Littleton<br/><strong>WEARING:</strong>T-shirt and jeans.<br/><strong>DAY:</strong>Friday, June 9th<br/><strong>TIME:</strong>Whatever the hell time the party is.  Sometime at night.<br/><strong>LOCATION:</strong>Backyard →  Exit<br/><strong>CONTENT:</strong>Meh.<br/><br/><strong>TAGGING:</strong>Open<br/><hr/><br/><div class="floatright">(https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/fe/64/5a/fe645ac3ecc6485046a31cc1c9da1f96.jpg)</div><br/>The detritus of beer cans and broken glass crunched and cracked beneath his feet as Jonas emerged from around the corner of the house.  A cigarette hung limply between his lips, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans, with no evidence of what had happened only a few feet away in the dark side of the house.  A couple of glances here and there were tossed his way, but they were paid no heed as he came back around to the party scene and the picnic table he had abandoned moments before.<br/><br/>Be cool, he thought to himself as he hung out on the top of the picnic table.  No need to draw attention to what had just happened back on the other side of the house.  The last thing he wanted for himself was to be pulled into drama and questions as to what might have happened by the gossips that still hadn't gotten the news that high school was over.<br/><br/>It did not look as if he had missed much.  A look around the scene had told him that the party was on the verge of dying, like embers in a fire pit whose flames had extinguished.  He took note of the gathering over at the other table, the logjam of people about gathering around pizza (<em>mmm, pizza</em>), as well as the absence of a few others who had been hanging around before he went around the corner.  Bummer, he thought to himself.<br/><br/>He checked his phone, taking note of the time.  Too early to go home, he thought.  His mom would be awake, hanging around to be interested in how his night went.<em>Not bad Mom, just got a blow-jay from a girl.</em>Yet sticking around the place didn't seem like it was going to be much more fun than going home.<br/><br/><em>Fuck it.</em>He thought to himself, hopping down from the table, and had begun to make his way out of the murder house backyard and down the path of cars where he was hoping to find something fun to do.