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He had the kind of face that
suggested he'd never been underage.
A badly set broken nose and perpetually
blackened eyes will do that for you.
Hung in bars with pool table back
rooms where band members played
eight ball and got righteously ripped
while look-alike clone punks played
their gig across town in low lit clubs
to whacked out Clockwork Orange
extras living up to their self-styled
images of droogs on acid.
A few fireball shooters with schooners
of high test German beers and he's
an alt-right crusader, ready to do battle
with anyone slightly off-color or vaguely
vertical and able to swing first and not ask
questions later. Occasional women
found him alluring in a sordid kind of
masochist, role playing, fantasy kind of
way. What followed was the stuff of
legend, that if written down would make
Juliette, vice amply rewarded seem
tame by comparison. Seem like a script
for your Aunt Julia's telenovelas slated
to be serialized on After Dark channels
on subscription only cable TV.
Interactions like these involved public places,
unique otherworldly settings, the odd zoo
for heightened effect that gave new meaning
to the concept of one night stand.
These kinds of encounters of the bawdy
kind led to severe memory gaps, lost
hours, even days, that reappeared like
bad acid flashbacks involving a stolen
classic sports car, disturbing U-turns against
traffic, police cars, and helicopters on you
ass, but no solid evidence of how the chases
ended or even if they were real. Often
there were marks, fresh wounds, beneath
rent clothes like long scratch marks on his back
that might turn septic. Sometimes they did,
sometimes they did not. It all depended
on their origin: human....animal...both...neither....