Chapter 9 - April

I stood in the middle of a colorless Times Square. Creatures lurked in the shadows while faceless people scurried the streets like ravenous rats. A red neon sign blinked above a seedy-looking porno shop that lured in a black hooker wearing high-heeled red boots, hot pants, and a fur coat. She casually pushed open the door, turned around, paused, and beckoned me. I walked through a curtain into a sweat-soaked room with a naked rabbi sitting in a bathtub full of spaghetti. The black whore was straddling the overweight middle-aged man like a bucking bronco, choking the life out of him. After his last breath, she dismounted, scratched her ass, and poked the corpse until it exploded, depositing shit, piss, guts, and brain matter across the room. She lured me deeper into the labyrinth through a set of heavy cast-iron doors decorated with a giant gold phallic symbol. We found ourselves seated in the upper deck lounge bar of a 747 jumbo aircraft as we walked through. There was a grotesque overweight man dressed in a one-piece gold lame jumpsuit sitting across from us. He wore gaudy, oversized gold rings on his fingers, and his mouth, a miniature Fort Knox, showcased gold-covered teeth. He pulled out a wad of hundred-dollar bills, smacked them across his hand, and snorted. The black whore went to business, grinning and grinding until the fat pimple popped his puss all over the cabin. I casually stood up, opened the aircraft door, jumped out, and immediately found myself lined up against a wall in front of a firing squad who were pointing oversized water guns at me. When they pulled the trigger, my eyes started burning from the vile urine. I desperately rubbed them to help ease the pain, but it was futile. The more I rubbed, the more pain it inflicted until finally, my eyes popped out, rolled across the dirt, and down a sewage drain. The cesspool carried me until I landed in the back seat of a plush Lincoln Continental stretch limo. I opened the car door, and someone escorted me into a crowded nightclub playing Anita Ward’s “Ring My Bell.” Two naked bodybuilders lifted me onto the stage, where a spotlight illuminated my innocent boyish body clothed in silky white boxers and white Stan Smith tennis shoes. The music lowered, the crowd stopped dancing, and a giant spinning disco ball descended and bathed the room in magical dots of light. A trapeze scooped me up and lifted me high above the crowd when David Naugton’s “Makin’ It” played as a sea of beautiful people danced below.