Vato Loco-Morning Iron Bench

I pushed past the sardine tin bunker and planted my boots right on the morning blacktop. Cruising and guarding is fine work, but keeping this frame carved takes daily iron. Near the curb drain, I spotted a heavy, discarded chrome socket wrench bit, hexagonal and cold as lead. I unhooked my whip chain, kicked a pebble aside, and dropped low on my knees. Gripping the grooved steel cylinder with both leather-gloved hands, I pressed it clean off my chest, pumping five slow, grinding shoulder presses right against the gritty asphalt. Iron builds iron. I dropped the socket with a resounding clink, puffed my chest proud, and shook out my knuckles.