As I was eating my breakfast, drinking coffee and thinking about what I could have done with the money I bet on the Penguins beating the Red Wings (in between fantasizing about roller derby girls every six seconds or so) I watched four truck drivers having a smoke and sharing a laugh outside. All four of them looked like Willie Picton. No shit. A lot of people look like Willie. That's a fact. There are not a lot of people who look like Clifford Olson. Nor are there a lot of people who look like Charles Manson. There's only one Charlie.
I have been thinking a lot about serial killers ever since I saw "No Country For Old Men." Now I am reading the book. Good motherfucking read. Thinking about serial killers is no way to start your day so I thought some about Luc Bourdon, the latest victim of the Canuck Curse. Killed on his motorcycle he was. Rode straight into the front of a semi. Did not have time to think, "I'm fucked." I thought about what he probably looked like, all splattered and all. Could be he got transected. Ambulance guys see wiped out bikers all the time. Seen one, you seen them all.
Then I finished my breakfast, scalded my throat with one last big gulp of coffee, said bye to Ma and headed into the mill. My foreman said, "Morning Beer," to me as I made my way to my machine. I said, "Morning Willie." He said, "Willie? I ain't Willie. What the fuck crawled up your ass?" I told him, "Fuck off." It was going to be one of those days at Willie Picton Forest Products.