Gun Club Breakfast Club

The rain hammered against the windows like Vaughn's face had hammered against the dirt when he'd finally stopped running from them. The four boys had gotten detention again, the third time this month, which meant jack shit to anyone who mattered but everything to the administration's precious statistics. Larsen sprawled across two desks, his white hair catching the fluorescent lights in a way that made him look like a sickly angel. His boots left mud streaks on the desk surface. "Fuckin' Vaughn...