Beat kicked his skates against the ground, leaning back in the bench on the side of the street. Civilians walked by, casting him weird looks, and pushing their children past the rudie quickly. Beat scoffed quietly and tossed his hands behind his head, rolling his wheels on the tar. Such uptight, proper parents were why he had given up the life of civilian. His mom had always told him to find a nice girl and settle down, and to live a quiet life like everyone else.
Fat chance of that now, Beat thought smugly to himself. Now he lived on the streets, with little but his skates and his spray paint to his name. Civilian life, what a crock. More like sheep life, going wherever life herded them. Rudies skated past life’s whims, and rebelled when things got too quiet.
A nearby bus parked in front of his bench. The driver looked warily out his window at the rudie as he set the automatic lock and stepped jauntily out of the bus. Beat smirked. Like he would want to get into that trashy bus.
He stood up, keeping balanced on his skates. No, that bus was about to get a much better paint job than the lifeless white that smeared it. He snatched a can off his bench and skated swiftly towards the far side of the bus.
Beat shook the can lazily, feeling the metal ball mixing around with loud clanking noises. The spray came out with a loud hiss, spattering dots of red paint across the dull white of the bus. Civilians ran at the sound, knowing that a punk was at work and it was better to let them be.
It wasn’t longer before Beat stepped back and inspected his handiwork. In large, concise letters, was his name on the previously blank bus. Around the signature were dice and flames, typical graffiti. That bus was his, now. But, something still didn’t seem right. There were large red blotches on the bus that he didn’t put there…
Beat frowned and took his blue tinted glasses off. Stray dots of red paint had stained the lens. The paint must've ran, Beat realized with a grimace. He muttered as he rubbed the glasses with his shirt, only to have the red smudge the recently cleaned yellow of his shirt.
“Damn paint…” Beat grumbled, kicking his skate against the nearest bus tire. One thing about the life of a rudie, there were no washing machines readily available. Even his gloves were sullied with the red paint, he noticed as he pushed the glasses back onto his face.
Beat sighed and skated back to his bench, sitting down with a thunk. His streets for a laundromat that wouldn’t kick him out.
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