Toothy smile hyped on crank, hand knotted by cheap gold, he's rockin' sockin'. There's nothin' smooth about this dance. You know, it's funny. Talkin' in tongues and twelve steps, he's lookin' for new converts, doesn't think suckin' embryos is God's will. Of course, beatin' the shit out of a stranger is something entirely different.
Powder king is on a crusade.
The speed just pumps his volume. His beat's good. I can feel their squeals of delight through the corners of my eyes, red tears streaming from the tips, dripping to the puddle that falls limply from my chin. I still feel tough but the reverse roundhouse kick was a bad fuckin' idea, hard soles on soft gravel a mistake. I don't feel conscious anymore.