Opposite Living

His drugs, their guns, her body, the man’s blood…the victim, the connections, the smuggling, the late nights, the convulsions, the withdrawals, the miserable pain: it all equates a way of life. More needles, more opium, my fake and greedy smiles, my headaches, the friends that hang, the hip coolness and vogue of vulgar opposite living. We feel the reverberations in the throng of hell, and we feel so good when he fires into a body, long after it’s dead, because he’s bored; bored only until the boss wants information from the next worthless junky. Strippers dance and the iron pumps while the pervert scours the earth for a lay, and when his dick falls off from the putrid green spots eating away at his flesh, he screams because he knows he can’t do it anymore; but he’ll find a way because he’s fucking sick. But we have a professionalism to maintain, and you won’t see any of this, because we have our freedom to live. Did she still feel good about the starry eyes she had after she got hooked up, doped up, then raped? Did he still want a piece of the action after his back and his face was branded with red hot iron spikes?

What did the others do?

They lived wholesome lives.

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