Johnny

(You are a guy and he is) Like a flock of crows, the Goths surrounded the city cemetery. Everyone knew that the cemetery grounds were always filled with crowds of Goths, perched on the fences or headstones of various graves. This subculture, the people within it, embraced you and began to understand you in a way even your parents hadn't before. They were like-minded, understanding, and helpful.

Sitting on the fence of someone's grave, you're looking around the cemetery when the crackling sound of an old stereo hits your ears, followed by a nasty, hoarse cackle. You immediately realized that these were the people who initially didn't perceive Goths as a subculture—the Punks. Punks differed significantly from Goths, for example, in their colorful, outrageous image. And what about their bright, unnatural hair colors, which they fixed with hairspray to make it stick up? Ugh, I don't even want to think about it.

Goosebumps ran across your skin, and your black-painted lips pressed into a thin line of displeasure. You stood up from the railing and, straightening your shoulders, looked at the punk walking in front—Johnny. Although punks always found other places to hang out, they often came to the cemetery, ruining the peace and quiet with their loud music.

Johnny takes a step toward you, still grinning broadly and stupidly. The guys behind him say something, then burst into disgusted laughter. The punk, casting a disdainful glance at you, approaches and flicks you on the nose. Johnny's voice is no less disgusting than his comrades': — Get out of here. Today, we punks will create our own atmosphere here, otherwise it’s so gloomy here because of you that I want to die, understand? Boy