I watched them come home year after year from Iraq and Afghanistan, young men and women no older than my own children, some missing an arm or a leg, some terribly disfigured by bomb fragments, all damaged emotionally by what they had seen, and I knew I had to write about it . . .
She came up to me in the parking lot behind the Slung Rig after the show. The lot reeked of piss, puke, and exiled pizza scraps. Even the rats were too finicky to troll around this Hamden hole, where headbangers and punkers partied or balled inside their cars whenever there was a gig. Those who could get it on around this stench had a better constitution than me—that, or some sort of mutant fetish, but hell, that’s mutants for you . . .