Couch surfing Stories

“What the hell kind of a name is Tyrmin?” Gressil asked. He was met with a stony glare with a deadpan resting expression as Tyrmin exhaled the last of his cigarette smoke and smushed the butt of it into the plastic microwave container that no one had thrown away from some meal someone ate days ago. “Are you really going to give me shit about my name, Gressil??” With a roll of his eyes. “Touche. So are we going to bang or...