Spider Thompson: Back on the Street

I’m back, you filthy bastards. The ink’s flowing again, the keys are screaming, and the street’s still a festering sewer of human garbage and glittering lies. Took a break—yeah, I know, you didn’t notice, because you’re too busy choking on the latest corporate-feed drip straight into your eyeballs. But I’m done licking my wounds up in the mountains, done with the silence that smells like pine and regret. Now it’s all concrete and sweat again, the hum of the city like a junkie’s pulse under my boots.

Writing’s a beast, see. It doesn’t wait for you to feel ready—it kicks down the door, shits on your rug, and demands you wrestle it into words. I’d forgotten the stench of it, the way it clings to you like cheap sex and cheaper whiskey. Time off was a mistake—a slow lobotomy with a view. Up there, I was just another asshole pretending the world wasn’t burning. But the street doesn’t forgive absence. It’s a jealous bitch, and she’s been clawing at my skull, whispering filth until I couldn’t ignore her anymore.

So here I am, back in the muck, wading through the neon slime and the hollow-eyed freaks who call this home. The stories are still out there, bleeding from the cracks—politicians screwing the poor, ad-drones screwing your brain, and the truth getting screwed hardest of all. My fingers itch, my head’s buzzing, and I’ve got a bellyful of rage that’s been simmering too long. The break’s over. The gun’s loaded—figuratively, for now—and I’m hunting again.

You’re welcome, you ungrateful swine.