Vagabonds: Anthology of the Mad Ones Vagabonds Vol. 3 | Page 44

Grace Mack
Secratine
Alyssa Cressotti
“Secratine isn’t a word, and whoever told you it was is a liar,” Fink
was laughing, but it was the sort of laugh one gives in place of full-on
derision. No one there had the balls to argue with him. Finkelstein, Fink
for short, was a small guy, thin and reedy with closely cropped blond hair
and tattoos that covered his arms and crept underneath his shirt. And it
wasn’t that he was a particularly intimidating or bad sort, it was just that
he didn’t think twice about stomping someone’s face in. In general, he was
affable and quite funny, but with enough alcohol and anger he could
completely transform into some kind of hostile ass-kicking machine.
Currently, Fink was driving us to the 7-11 where he was going to
buy us Marlboro reds and talk some shit with the other townies. “Secratine
doesn’t need to be a word; it could be a name or something…” I said to
him. He just snorts in response. Perversion of the Secratine was the name
of our band, and he was the third person to bring up the fact that secratine
isn’t really a word. “Eh, whatever. Still sounds pretty awesome. Right?” I
sound pitiful; like I’m waiting for some sort of approval from the last
person who has the right to approve. What was he, anyway, ‘cept some old
guy who is nothing but a former punk, former skinhead, now currently a
former Marine. He’s not saying anything. He reaches over with his
tattooed arm and punches my leg—“You still wearing these?” and of
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