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Summary
He walked over to take a look at the picture himself.
Sure enough, staring back at him proudly from the grainy Polaroid that had clearly been scanned in at some point over the years, stood a very baby-faced, teenage Jack Abbot wrapped up in the very same leather jacket he was wearing now (less a couple of badges), arms crossed over his chest, gesturing idly to the car that had been trashed behind him, with the air of an artist standing beside his work.
“In fact, I’m pretty proud of that one,” he remarked.
OR: It's halloween, a costume-mandate has been issued from the powers that be, and Jack Abbot has been punk rock all his life.
(+ Now with art!)