The Weekday One Hundred

I stood on the shoulder of the busy interstate. Before me, a newly installed billboard of… me.

It was a twenty-foot-tall travesty. The bastards had pockmarked my skin, browned my teeth, and reddened my eyes. I looked like a common criminal which, apparently, was the point.

I should have said no. Or at least asked a few questions. Everyone warned me too. But I had to be the good guy, had to help an old friend.

And this was my reward: unwittingly becoming the face of a fly-by-night bail bonds agency.              

“Jesus,” I finally muttered. There were no other words.