Prologue

                                    

                                          
We're the Pogues, and our mission this summer is to have a good time, all the time.
John B stood on the edge of the roof, drinking a beer. He looked down at his friends and pretended he was about to jump off, his foot hanging over the edge. He had always pretended to be much more reckless than he was, but usually, it didn't end well.
"That's what, a three-story fall to the deck?" said one of his friends, Pope. "I give you about a one-in-three chance of survival."
"Hm," John B hesitated. "Should I do it?"
"Yeah, jump. I'll shoot you on the way down," replied Pope, pointing a drill at him. 
"You'll shoot me?" John B pointed down at Pope. 
"Yep. Pow!"
"They're gonna have Japanese toilets with towel warmers," Kiara said, coming from around the corner.
"Of course. Why wouldn't they?" JJ asked, filled with sarcasm.
"This used to be a turtle habitat, but who cares about the turtles, I guess?" Kiara sighed and looked up at John B. It was clear she disapproved of his antics.
"I can't have cold towels." JJ took another sip of his beer.
"Can you please not kill yourself?" Kiara called.
"Don't spill that beer," JJ yelled. "I'm not giving you another one."
John B slipped, and spilled his beer, "Whoa! Oh, shit."
"Of course you did," sighed JJ.
"Smooth."
JJ groaned, "A-plus."
"Dumbass."
"Hey!" Pope said. "Hey, uh, security's here." Two police officers got out of the car and began walking towards the back. "Let's wrap it up."
"Boys are early today," JJ sighed.
The Pogues then began to run from the cops. This was a common occurrence, but luckily the cops could never catch them. Once the group reached the Twinkie, they relaxed a little as they drove off.
The Outer Banks, Paradise on Earth. It's the sort of place where you either have two jobs or two houses. Two tribes, one island. All right. This is Figure Eight, the rich side of the island. Home of the Kooks. So, guess where we don't live. And then, this is the south side, or, the cut. Home of the working class who make a living busing tables, washing yachts, running charters. The natural habitat of... drumroll, please...
...the Pogues. That's us. Pogues, pogies, the throwaway fish. Lowest member of the food chain. Okay. So, the downside of Pogue life is we're ignored and neglected. But the upside of Pogue life? We're ignored and neglected, which means we do whatever we want, whenever we want.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Nice haul, dude. Look at that," JJ said as John B poured a bunch of fish on the boat.
"Ugh, John B."
"Been all bait for, like, three weeks."
That's JJ, my best friend since the third grade. He's about as local as they come. Latest in a long line of fishing, drinking, smuggling, vendetta-holding salt-lifers who made their living off the water. Second-best surfer I know. Just don't tell him I said that. Mild kleptomaniac and a future tax cheat.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Is this guy in prison?" Kiara asked, to which her companions shook their heads.