The first vague
memory I have of my teenage years is a prophetic reoccurring nightmare. In the nightmare, I am out on the streets, in some dark, back alley. I am hungry and stoned, tripping out of my flesh. I am surrounded by people I barely know. Drifters and hustlers, people with absolutely nothing to lose. You can see it in their eyes and sense their subdued hunger in the air, ready to pounce on the unsuspecting. Ready to do their human dance, like a wildcat ready to jump the bird and rip the muscle from the bone, blood dripping down the jaw in pure gluttony.
They force their will upon me. At least one of them is armed with a pistol. They want me to lose my virginity below a coked-out, chubby teenage run-away prostitute. Our dirty thighs slapping together making squid noises, her sloppy snatch like a wet taco. With all the commotion, I hope I can whisper into her ear to help get me away from these freaks without anyone noticing. If they do, I know I will get snuffed. If I don’t, I risk just as much. As bodies convulse in mutual orgasm, I shoot my plea into her. Steam comes from her ears in a loud hiss. She becomes a vulture, tearing into my intestines with sharp beak. Sausage looking entrails dangle from her mouth, while dirty vagrants look down at me and laugh.
This is about the time I usually wake up.
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