Sean always liked to plan his airstrikes from local coffee shops. It relaxed him.
Drugs sold here. Or is it something about a serial killer? Or someone making a political statement about adidas? I can never keep track.
I venture onto the "wrong side" of the tracks, hoping that the killer mountain goats don't descend from Mt.Hood before I can get back across.
I call this one: Don't Fuck with Santa.
Somehow underwear in an underpass seems appropriate. Filthy, but appropriate.
Because Melissa doesn't have voicemail.
This smiley face does not inspire happiness.
Not quite recycling, but you're getting there.
Probably not the safest method of suspension for a mad scientist, but it gets the job done.
Ryan takes a picture of himself while out for a walk. The timestamp later helped absolve him of a crime committed by Gary Busey nearby.
Sean watches the blank television, imagining it filled with dancing ladies.
