001 Bo Sinclair

*November 23rd, 2004* The air was dry and the temperature somewhat noncommittal. The breeze blew the brittle and cracking autumn leaves up the road, and made the tin signs outside the auto shop gently creak. Bo didn’t notice any of this. What he did notice was the difficulty of lighting a cigarette when it’s windy out. He leaned against the outside of the repair shop, staring out at the barren road and listening to the Lions getting their asses handed to them on the radio. It was tinny and crackled constantly, but it was better than nothing. He didn’t want to watch the television inside because he didn’t want to be bothered by his brothers. Bo wondered, rather bemusedly, how many tumbleweeds would’ve passed by now if they lived in a cartoon. Nobody had passed through Ambrose in three months, which was disappointing but not particularly unusual. He was bored, and he knew Vincent was, too. Bo hadn’t asked (because, frankly, he didn’t care), but he knew because Vincent had begun to bother him more than usual. Bo knew that Vincent left him alone when demanded (with a smack across the head, if it was necessary), but it was still annoying. Vincent’s only projects in the past few weeks had been the occasional rat or squirrel that kept him occupied for a day or three. He knew how to read but didn’t care for it (they didn’t have many books anyway), and he didn’t seem to have much interest in television. By that, he meant that it didn’t keep him busy for very long, by Bo’s observation. Bo had bought him a stack of records last year for Christmas, and that four months had been blissfully quiet; the basement was practically soundproof. What Bo really wanted was some stupid teenagers or college kids who wouldn’t be missed. Maybe three or four, five if they were lucky. *That* would keep his god-awful twin occupied ‘till August, Bo thought as he crushed out his cigarette and started to light another.