They called themselves the tribe. A disparate band of hoodlums made tough by numbers, reinforced by concealed blades and young girls in too much lipstick. Kings of the neighbourhood, they flounced, preened and one night chanced their arms.
Midnight, alone and moody, I meandered. They struck.
The cops found all ten of them in a trashcan. Good job I was bored or they wouldn’t have found them at all. You see, and I tell you this because we’ll probably never meet, there’s only one real tribe, and they weren’t in it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, the sun rises. Time to sleep. Time to rest. Time to put the smile away.