Face up, snort the street-mix of dog shit, spit, duck-fat and gas.
Blurred crotch helicopters in, morphs shackled to unsheathed by hand with thumb-massaged base.
Erect, steady, cocked back, ballistic-ready.
Reach out, spine-arched, late, slitting cat-eyes to slow time.
That nuclear white-noise microsecond, that unrepeatable pleasure falling into sonic blindness stalked by my own deafening Paulinho percussion of highs, sighs, moans, and emotions drowning in the black sea of despair.
Another … expiring?
“He resisted and grabbed your gun. So let him bleed out, OK?”
Big Ben chimes.