I slowly (and hesitantly) approached that prisoner of war camp on the daily, that Chernobyl-esque monument to Eastern Bloc deterioration, that shit stained hell that seemingly owned my life. I say seemingly, because at the time, it defined who and how I was. You’ve got to feel the monotony; you’ve got to feel it in order to truly understand it. Up the steps I went, through the door, and with that, each day (and the story) begins. The warehouse itself was pretty damned massive; a deep, cavernous structure stacked to the gills with weathered boxes, bags, makeshift shelving, and various pallet loads of goods for sale. It was an older building, crammed tight with little sold products, all of them well coated with a thick blanket of dust. In any case, the structure was well lit, as the many skylights provided good light where the fluorescents didn’t reach. What a joint to be in, though. Under the rusty tin roof, the place became Congo crotch hot in the summer; guaranteed and absolute sweat drenched bayou balls for all who dared to enter, and winters that would make you feel like you were setting up base camp in Antarctica. The towering shelf walls were lined with various crude drawings, and were peppered with random graffiti of tits, asses, cocks, explicit acts of sex, violence and a sprinkling of cuss words. Don’t ask why. We brandished the humor of a bunch of giggle infested twelve year olds, and we wore that childishness with pride. Our debauched state of mind was a direct product of the boredom that we faced head on, like warriors facing a great foe. Yes, it was very much like middle school all over again. And we reveled in it.