Welcome to Mic Drop.

The podcast where relevancy is irrelevant and we don't give a shit about your feelings.

There in a shallow desert ditch was a grey haired Caucasian male.

His head split to the white meat.

A pile of brains had oozed to the ground where Timmy had put Jobi's 380.

Blood droplets sprayed into the sand and dirt made small dark constellations.

His blue jeans were splattered with purple, quarter-sized splotches.

His wrists and ankles were bound with duct tape, his hands were limp.

It was already over a hundred degrees and the promise of coagulated blood and exposed

matter had begun to attract flies.

You were a black leather jacket whose top rocker that curved cloth patch that spanned

the shoulder blades red, Mongols.

I asked, you think he's dead?

Timmy said, dude looks better than disco.

Shit, those look like his brains in the dirt.

Timmy leaned in closer.

Yeah, I'd say he's pretty dead.

He spat a stream of flim into the brush beyond the grave.

Dude, no fucking around here.

We go home and show the boys we killed a Mongol, then we'd better be dead not sure it doesn't

look like he's coming back.

Timmy smiled, relax, bird, we got this.

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