dicks in your vages and anuses
Late at night, I get out of class. The college is situated out in the middle nowhere, surrounded by the woods. For some reason I'm giving this girl a ride home. We get into my car and I go to start it up. She said that we were in danger. I don't think I showed any signs of confusion but rather acceptance, even before she pointed out the guy just up the hill lumbering towards us. We're parked at an incline, where the grass is balding because apparently it's the student parking lot. It was very similar to the incline on the left side of my grandfather's cabin (if you face the highway going uphill).
The girl, there was some sense of familiarity with her, though I've never met her before. Or maybe the guy just looked scary enough to make the only other person "on my side" to be the closest of people I hold dear at that moment. I really don't know at this point.
Almost by instinct, but still intentionally, I floor it. Not only do I hit the guy, but I drag him underneath my car for a few seconds as well. We could feel his body roll out from under us as we cleared the top of the parking lot. We immediately hit the streets.
It was suddenly evening--just before sunset. The atmosphere was much like that of Los Angeles--a sunbaked concrete jungle filled with run-down buildings and trash everywhere. At one point, we broke into a large, vanilla-colored mall at night. Its exterior was fashioned out of those fucking annoying off-white pebbles that are glued together, glazed, and applied to the surface of a stone to give it that ugly texture and feel. We spent a quick night there.
We were now fleeing from the law. We stopped into an surf and incense shop located out on the beach--or something similar to outfits run by those weird hippies. There, I was approached by a shaman. He was familiar, but I had no memory of him. He turned my hair long and black, and it was an unmitigated action--I didn't protest or ask him what he was doing. I perceived it as nothing more than a gas station attendant pumping my gas for me. THe shaman then painted the left side of my face--though it felt like my right side. It was narrow yet blocky, stretching from my hairline down to my neck, also surrounding my left eye in some artistic manner.
The police had arrived. The "captain" walked up to me and began talking. I assumed he was the captain, anyway. He was wearing a constable's hat and sported a thick mustache. As he began talking, the fear of going to prison swelled up inside of me. He explained why he was here--everything I was fearing he was telling me--knowing about whom was hit, etc.
For some strange reason, the chief/captain/whoever allowed me to excuse myself for a bit. I don't know if he knew it was me or not, but I assumed he did. We were talking outside the back door of the hippy shop, so I walked from there out into the beach, stopping about 50 or so years away from the shop near a few palm trees.
I was so fucked.
The girl, there was some sense of familiarity with her, though I've never met her before. Or maybe the guy just looked scary enough to make the only other person "on my side" to be the closest of people I hold dear at that moment. I really don't know at this point.
Almost by instinct, but still intentionally, I floor it. Not only do I hit the guy, but I drag him underneath my car for a few seconds as well. We could feel his body roll out from under us as we cleared the top of the parking lot. We immediately hit the streets.
It was suddenly evening--just before sunset. The atmosphere was much like that of Los Angeles--a sunbaked concrete jungle filled with run-down buildings and trash everywhere. At one point, we broke into a large, vanilla-colored mall at night. Its exterior was fashioned out of those fucking annoying off-white pebbles that are glued together, glazed, and applied to the surface of a stone to give it that ugly texture and feel. We spent a quick night there.
We were now fleeing from the law. We stopped into an surf and incense shop located out on the beach--or something similar to outfits run by those weird hippies. There, I was approached by a shaman. He was familiar, but I had no memory of him. He turned my hair long and black, and it was an unmitigated action--I didn't protest or ask him what he was doing. I perceived it as nothing more than a gas station attendant pumping my gas for me. THe shaman then painted the left side of my face--though it felt like my right side. It was narrow yet blocky, stretching from my hairline down to my neck, also surrounding my left eye in some artistic manner.
The police had arrived. The "captain" walked up to me and began talking. I assumed he was the captain, anyway. He was wearing a constable's hat and sported a thick mustache. As he began talking, the fear of going to prison swelled up inside of me. He explained why he was here--everything I was fearing he was telling me--knowing about whom was hit, etc.
For some strange reason, the chief/captain/whoever allowed me to excuse myself for a bit. I don't know if he knew it was me or not, but I assumed he did. We were talking outside the back door of the hippy shop, so I walked from there out into the beach, stopping about 50 or so years away from the shop near a few palm trees.
I was so fucked.