Origins, Pt. 13

June of 93, a Friday morning in Front Royal at that old diner on 340. Shane and I are in there wolfing down eggs, bacon, and toast after a night of camping out along Passage Creek at Elizabeth Furnace. Our eyes are wide as we eavesdrop on the conversations of the rough and tumble breakfast crowd around us. We keep overhearing fragments about penises being cut off and thrown in fields in Manassas. When we get outside climb into his Dodge truck and light cigarettes we begin laughing about how weird these folks are. When we get home though and look at the Washington Post everything makes sense. That night, while America would be transfixed by Mrs. Bobbitt, we headed to the RFK parking lot for the annual Dead show.