No one else noticed, or cared. It was just something they did. Taking other people’s livestock. Other people’s lives. She watched the soldiers, hating them. They were different in so many ways, white and black, yellow and brown, skinny, short, tall, small, but they were all the same. Didn’t matter if they wore finger-bone necklaces, or baby teeth on bracelets, or tattoos on their chests to ward off bullets. In the end, they were all mangled with battle scars and their eyes were all dead.
Look at me. . . look at me. . . I need the attention, oooh I'm punk rock I got some tattoos, I got some piercings. If I'm gonna get some piercings then I want everyone to see it. . . I don't need to advertise my punkness. A real punk doesn't need to show off. . . Its like a Karate man. . . the Karate man bleed on the inside. A real punk is punk on the inside.