Admit One


Bobby Maskel’s socket wrench slipped off the bolt he’d been trying to loosen for the past twenty minutes. His knuckles slammed against metal. Pain flashed across his hand. He cursed, barely stopping himself from tossing the wrench against the wall, remembering at the last second Mr. Greene’s lectures about “respecting the workplace and the tools with which we make our living.”

“Living my ass,” Bobby mumbled as he clenched his hand into a fist, examining the damage. “Only one making a living off this shit is Greene and his dumb-ass son.”

After a brief inspection, it was clear he’d done nothing worse than scrape his knuckles. It stung all the same. Still pissed but calmer, Bobby regarded the dismembered snow-blower on the work bench, glaring as if he could lay the blame for his life’s misfortunes on its engine block and chassis.

He was working ‘The Pit’ this month. He hated working The Pit. Greene’s Metal Salvage accepted all kinds of scrap metal and paid competitive rates.
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