I walk in slow motion through a dreary basement dungeon past a man hanging in a harness while 3 or 4 people take turns fisting his asshole. Past a woman crucified on a giant wooden X, tied in place by her wrists and ankles by leather straps, a plastic KeyFood bag tied over her head, she gasps for air in ecstasy as two other women leather clad in replica SS Officer uniforms slash her small sweaty tits with medical grade scalpels. Past two men making out naked, covered in blood, using the thick red liquid to jerk each other off. Past a filthy mattress with a naked sleeping pregnant woman with the word ‘fuckslut’ written on her huge pregnant stomach in red lipstick. Still walking in slo-mo, the ketamine more or less starting to wear off, I moonwalk over to a small circular table where sits a familiar face: Stan. Or Steve? is cutting up lines of some pink powder, his sweat pants freshly wet with unknown body fluids.
“What’s up Stan, Steve, whatever the fuck your name is”
He continues cutting up lines, a dozen of them in 2 rows of 6, they are perfect, symmetrical, identical, on top of an old AOL free trial CD case, and he stares at the lines, transfixed, then says, flat and emotionless, “my names Chad”