The next day I still had blood and shit under my fingernails. I told everyone I'd been painting and they smiled and nodded like their heads were on springs, thinking: if he paints for fun he must be a queer or something. And I went to park street with my sunglasses on and some fuck slammed his shoulder into my shoulder on purpose. He was one of those in Tommy Hilfiger with a stupid haircut. I only had to kick him once because everyone knows you just have to wear steel toes.

They had his mother on TV in a wheelchair crying and talking about him being with Jesus now. I was watching naked in the dark, drinking a Coke, smoking a clove. I laughed at her because she's a fatass lying bitch and she didn't hear her "Christian" son sobbing "oh, yes, please" when I put two fingers in the wound in his stomach as foreplay and moved them in and out and then leaned over and did the same thing with my tongue in his mouth. His dick was hard against my leg and when I leaned back to breathe and look him in the eye. All he would say was "harder."

His funeral is tomorrow. I think maybe I'll go and shoot some people. Shit. I don't have my gun anymore. And the waiting period is three goddamned days. I guess I could drop acid and go anyway. He would have wanted me there. But if I have to see his mom I'll start laughing. I shouldn't go.

So I went to a Catholic church instead, where they still had confessionals and I told the poor bastard priest everything. And when I said that my hand sliding in made a sound like squishing jello around in your mouth, he started crying and saying "oh, Jesus - oh, Jesus." And that was so much like what the boy had said that I couldn't stop laughing, it got so bad that my knees were weak and I couldn't see where I was going, and I almost fell as I was leaving.

I went to Taco Bell from the church and lied and said they fucked up my last order. I got a shitload of free food and drove to the beach at ninety. I didn't eat much. I threw the rest out the window of my car, did some coke. Drove in circles. Did a little crying

It'll never be like that again, not with someone I have to force, it won't be art if it isn't consensual and interactive. It makes me mad mad crazy scared. I miss him. It was better when he was here. I can't even smell him on my hands anymore, and it's only been two days. I took his necklace.  It's junk, a pewter anarchy symbol on a black string, but I'm afraid to wear it because the cops are everywhere.

I made a big bowl of black cherry jello and left it in the confessional. I'm going to try to give that poor bastard priest a nervous breakdown.

Let's speculate about the fate of america. This place is ripe for a predator like me, everyone is slow and complacent. I could kill one a week for the rest of my life. And never get caught. But that wouldn't be the same. I think this place is like when a star becomes a red giant. It's pretty, but it's diseased, and it's going to fall in on itself. Nobody will pick up the pieces.

Let's figure out what the rings of Saturn would look like from the surface. I suspect they're like an aurora borealis on acid, glittering wild with ice crystals and strange frozen chemicals. The sun in the sky would be green and about the size of a marble. The horizon would be so big your heart would break, not like here when everything looks, okay, fake.
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