Chapter 2

“Wake the fuck up!” I yelled at Mike. I woke up to nuclear alarm sound blaring from my iPhone, itching my scratchy pirate beard. We had passed out in the back of Mike’s Denali in a drug-induced stupor from the night before. The combination of Roxy’s and Xanax will really put you on your ass. I shook Mike, but he was comatose.

“Mike, you dumb fuck wake up!” I wound back my hand and smacked the shit out of him. His eyes slowly creaked open.

“What’s up?” He asked.

“You gotta drop me off, and you got work for your dad today.”

“That’s not til’ later son, we good.” He lowered his head again, nodding out.

“I got work in thirty minutes,” I said, shaking him again. Mike finally started moving. We opened the trunk and stretched our limbs, hopefully releasing some more toxins hidden in our bones. Sitting down on Mike’s bumper, we lit up a couple of cigarettes. I stared at Mike, his eyes continuously closing and then snapping back open, Roxy’s always made him dose off like that. I looked down the plastic suburban streets, the sickeningly perfect families smiling carefree, I was clearly the outcast. I’ve lived here since I was a kid, but I’ll still just be that black kid from Inwood that lived with Mike.

“Yo, look,” I said, nodding my head toward the skinny sketchball who was crossing the street in front of us, “ain’t that Anthony? Da fuck is he doin’ up this early?” I asked. Anthony was walking down the block, staring at the house’s he passed with his ash-soaked corpse eyes; He glanced into their houses, analyzing the families eating their organic scrambled eggs, and turkey bacon, like a predator eyeing its prey.

“What a fuckin’ schlep-rock,” Mike said.

We had heard stories about Anthony, the local freak. My boy Petey once told me Anthony had to go to a psyche ward for burying his cat in a box by the shore. Apparently, he sat there, waiting for the tide to rise, and listened to it drown. Ray said he seen him another night on Eldo bay, just digging a hole, dressed in all black. No one ever questioned if the stories were fact or fiction, we accepted them all as truths.

“That little fuck is the next Jeffery Dahmer,” Mike said. He took a deep drag from his cigarette. Mike fucking hated Anthony for no apparent reason, but after spending so much time with him, I think it’s because Mike saw parts of himself in Anthony. They both had psychopathic tendencies, but at least Mike justified it with some emotions, sometimes too much.

I don’t remember when the hell I met Mike. My earliest memory I guess is when we were five. We both played hockey at the Long Beach Rink, he used to get sent home for being vicious and violent when we played. I always thought it was funny to see the other kids cry and bleed. We became friends immediately, soon after, we became brothers.

His parents took me in right after I turned eight. My mom, believe it or not, is a Jew from Woodmere; She’s been heavily medicated her whole life, and never really bothered with me. She still lives in the same house, although since the hoarding, it’s become more of a maze of magazines, old electronics, and wooden spoons. I stop by maybe once a month to see if the mountain of useless shit in her house has fallen down and buried her yet. No such luck.

Since I’m black, I never met my father, making me the total cliché package. Apparently he was some bumbaclock, dreadlocked Jamaican dude. I like to think he’s smoking a fat spliff somewhere in Jamaica, right by da beach mon, but, more likely than not, he’s dead.

Mike’s dad, Franklin, saw how close Mike and I became, and decided it would be best if I moved in. He didn’t really give a fuck that my home life was fucked up, he just saw a way to help his own son. Franklin talked to my mom, she agreed with suspiciously little hesitation. No paperwork, no lawyers—it just happened. I had a new life. I was now an unofficially adopted member of the Cunningham family, and Mike’s half-black brother. Sometimes, I wonder if it really made any difference whether I stayed or not.

Mike was one of those kids who had no middle ground; everything was to the extreme, and I was always along for the ride. There was no such thing as a casual beer. Mike would shotgun twelve before going to see his grandmother. We were always in honors and AP classes together in high school, but we also a disciplinary record equally as impressive, thwarting our chances of a college scholarship (not that we needed it with his dad around.) I ended up at Syracuse, and Mike at Tampa.

I visited him and college and watched him blow three Oxy’s, then write a fifteen page psychology paper that ended up getting nominated for a scholarship by his professor. That’s just the kind of guy mike was, he was a smart spoiled rich kid, who knew how to get what he wanted. His dad didn’t give a fuck what he did, as long as he was doing well in something. Currently it was the Nassau county paramedic program, after his expulsion from college. He was always getting fired from his jobs for dumb ass reasons. Like once, he got caught at the vet he was working at, stealing dog Percocet (that was actually pretty funny.) It would take like forty pills just to feel a little buzz.

Mike was now currently doing odd jobs for his dad, at his monstrous house. Today I believe he was washing all of the cars for money that would end up going up our noses. Although it had been years, I remember how Mike’s house looked. The hallways adorned in numerous degrees and accolades given to Mike’s dad over the years; Cover of Forbes, Purple Heart, picture with Dick Cheney at Tony Blair’s birthday party. I remember his eyes constantly sizing up your every move. One look from Franklin and your mind starts yelling fuck he knows, he knows everything, and he knows I know he knows. He had that Vietnam stare, the angry death stare. He must have learned it from Cheney. Franklin knew Mike was full of shit, but Mike always found a way to weasel his way back into Franklin’s pockets.

Mike inherited his father’s gift of persuasion, but that soon morphed into manipulation, the art of a true addict. Although he might have been fucked up, He was intensely loyal, and would kill for his friends.

“Alright, lets head out,” Mike said.

“You might wanna do something about your eyes.” We entered Mike’s car. Before I could close my door, he pulled out a bag of coke, and cut up some lines that Tony Montana would have been proud of.

“This should help,” Mike said. He let out his signature shrill dolphin laugh. He went first doing the fatter of the two and passed me the straw. “Don’t get any of that ridiculous beard in there.” I put my nose to the dashboard and scrunched my face. I could feel the gasoline chemical burn start to itch my brain.

“This shit is mad cut!” I said.

“Yeah, but that’s why we gotta do a lot,” Mike said. We did two more before starting the car. Driving down the street, I watched as the town seemed to become encapsulated by thick clouds. These days were my favorite. Nothing is hidden in the glamour of the sunlight. Everything has to be honest. Even the grass seems less happy. Mike pulls up to the Genesee beach entry.

“You want a Xanny-bar before work?” Mike asked.

“Na, I gotta watch the water bro, responsible for lives and shit out here.”

“Nigga, there ain’t gonna be no one at the beach today,” Mike said. I rubbed my beard and contemplated taking one.

“Na, bro, maybe after work.”

“Fine, more for me,” Mike said.

“Don’t get too fucked up, pace yourself, we got a game today,” I said.

Mike nodded his head as I shut the door. I squinted as he drove off slowly, swerving between lanes, I couldn’t help but nod my head in disapproval. I turned around disappearing into the sea of red-shorted lifeguards. Steve, My boss began reading off our stations.

“Wingnut, you’re on Vernon today. Taylor- Eldo, Matt- You’re on Montgomery.”

Fuck, Monty again. Montgomery was the quietest beach, but no one wanted to work it.

“C’mon, Steve, I’m always at Monty!” I said.

“Well no one ever goes in the water, and you’re the only black guard I have, Matt. My hands are tied.”

“Man, that’s cold blooded.”

“Take it up with Sharpton.” Steve continued reading the roster. “John R.- You’re on Gennesee.”

I roamed on the streets toward my assigned beach, stepping on the crushed glass and molten pavement; I couldn’t feel anything through my thick calloused feet. I got to the beach and sat down in the windy door-less shack. My eyes fixated on the small piles of sand swirling into tornadoes. Eric Hemmings slogged in from down the beach. He was a skinny, dark skinned Italian kid with awkward glasses that always slipped off when he bent over to do something. Today, he was donning the required bright yellow chair boy shirt, and some sweet leather pants. Eric was slow. I didn’t know exactly what his condition was, it wasn’t Down syndrome, but he was definitely retarded.

In third grade, he started to get in trouble for filling his entire journal with the word “Fuck,” and one time in fifth grade, we went bowling for his birthday. He kept throwing the bowling ball while the bumper came down to re-rack the pins; he thought it was hilarious, we all laughed as Eric’s dad shamefully buried his head in his hands.

Eric may have been slow, but the A.B. persona definitely took hold of him. He got a job as a chair boy a couple years ago. He would always wear these crazy outfits to work, and talk mad shit about the customers after taking down the chairs. Two dollars for four fuckin’ chairs! Fuckin’ Jews here on this beach! Shit like that. He didn’t hate Jews; he just thought that shit was hilarious.

“What’s good, Eric?” I asked.

“Nothin’ there’s no fuckin’ people here today!” Eric said. He held out his hand and I passed him a cigarette, as I did most mornings. The kid must have smoked two packs a day, all other people’s cigarettes. “Thanks, where’s that fuckin’ bum Mike?”

“Workin’ for his dad today.” Eric laughed as he struggled to light the cigarette in the wind ripping through the shack.

“He needs to find a fuckin’ real job.” His words muffled by the cigarette. I laughed. Even Eric could pick up on Mike’s childish nature. “Don’t you need to go on stand?” Eric said.

“Yeah, I’ll head down.” I gathered the tarps and flags and began walking down the long wooden path to the lifeguard stand. Eric started bringing down the rescue board.

“I got it Eric.”

“Fuck you, I’m just sittin’ here anyways,” he said. We got to the stand and he asked me for one more cigarette before heading back to the shack.

I climbed up the chair, goose bumps raised by the cold morning air. I stared at the waves crashing into the slimy green algae-clad jetties. When we were younger we used to see who could walk out the furthest without slipping, and when we got a little older, we used it as another place to run away from Mike’s parents and smoke weed. I watch the empty beach and the white water crushing, sitting there, alone, I felt the guilt creeping up. I looked at the cold white sand shivering in the wind, and thought back.

One spring, back when I went to Syracuse, I came home for break. Mike and I were walking on the beach, back from silverpoint beach club, when we were nineteen or so. The beach was hot that night, windless; still air, perfect for smokin’ a blunt. We were with a few friends of ours; Petey, The classic Spicolli-esque stoner, only a little more ghetto; Antoine, the strongest and blackest of us all, we used to call him Shwartzanigga, and Chazz, a wannabe A.B. boy from over the bridge. We sat in the dunes and saw the orange moon turn red as it sunk lower into the black sky.

“You good to roll that shit in the dark?” Mike asked.

“They don’t call me Petey blunts for nothin’.” As the words left his mouth a rouge gust of wind came by and swept all the weed off Petey’s lap into the dark dune grass. Maybe then we should have just left, but we pressed on to get our fix.

“You fuckin’ dick,” I said. We all laughed at Pete’s expense. Antoine pulled out a fat bag of weed and threw it at Pete.

“Don’t fuck up again, son, that’s all the bud I got til’ next week,” said Antoine. Pete opened that fat bag of weed.

“Shit I need some light,” Pete said. Suddenly, a revealing blue light clicked on and illuminated him. “Perfect!”

We turned around to see an old silverpoint security guard holding the flashlight. He was one of those guys who found a new sense of purpose in his old age, to secure the border between the private club and the public beach.

“Nobody move!” The security guard said. Chazz immediately took off running, but the rest of us stayed. This place was ours, and no one could tell us anything. Petey continued to roll the blunt casually.

“Just keep that light steady for one more minute” Petey said, we all laughed. The old angry guard walked over, trying to keep his balance in the uneven sands. He grabbed the weed out of Petey’s hand. Antoine stood up, moving the earth beneath his gigantic rock-feet, marching at the guard. He seemed to swell up, and somehow get bigger when he was mad.

“You best give that shit back, old man,” Antoine said. He got right in the old mans weathered face, but the old man did not waver. He grabbed the little radio on his shoulder and pushed the button.

“Mark, we got a couple of druggies here by the big dunes.” As soon as his finger left the radio, Antoine grabbed the weed from the guard. Mike came up behind him and sucker-punched him right in the side of the face. You could hear the old man’s eye socket crack against Mike’s unwarranted fist. Like frenzied sharks that had just tasted blood, we attacked. We stomped the old body until it twitched. The blue security outfit now soaked in blood and sand. I stood and watched as Mike kept stomping the man; again, and again, and again.

“Mike, let’s go! We already got the bud!” I screamed. I had to rip him by his arm to get him off. We ran on the red tainted moonlit beach until we reached the secret entrance behind Mike’s house. We lifted the sand covered hatch, and walked into his cellar.

The next morning, we parted ways. Chazz ended up snitching, and we all got charged. Mike’s dad made one call, and we never even went to court. Antoine and Petey had to do some time, but a couple of months ain’t that bad, at least they got acquitted on the attempted murder. Mike ended up blaming me for the whole thing. He told his dad it was my weed, and that I started with the guard.

Franklin kicked me out on the spot. No more big house, and no more college. I had enough cash saved up that I moved into my own place. I didn’t blame mike for lying, who’s to say I wouldn’t have done the same if it was my dad. Mike wasn’t the most honest guy, he had what we call A.B. honesty. At least he knows not to snitch.

My thoughts were disturbed when Anthony walked past the lifeguard chair. He didn’t turn around to look at me, he just kept walking. I peered through my sunglasses, hiding my eyes as he crept into the water, fully clothed.

“What the fuck?” I said to myself. He slipped further out into the ocean. He dove under. I stood up, watching, wondering if he was drowning, and if he was, should I even try and save him? His body came back up in a dead man’s float. I blew the whistle at him twice. No response. I pounced down the beach, to the water’s edge with the rescue board, and paddled out, frantically. The dark, mystery- ridden waters seemed to get colder the closer I got. His body wasn’t moving. Fuck. I got to him and flipped him over.

“Are you okay!?” I asked.

He was fine. He just stared at me for a second, his eyes black and creature-like, threatening everything they focused on. He stared right into my eyes and swam away without saying a word. I sat there on my board, panting after the swim, watching Anthony exit the water and disappear down the beach, my fear still excreting into the waters around me like a human tea bag. I swam in before the sharks could smell the terror in the ocean.

I spent the rest of the day thinking about what had happened. Why was this kid so scary? Why did I feel threatened by him? He was just a punk, and I’m sitting here thinking about him all day. I was starting to regret not taking that Xanax from Mike.

I walked up the beach carrying my gear. Up at the shack, Mike was already there, having a cigarette with Eric.

“You ready?” he asked.

“I haven’t even walked off the fuckin’ beach, Mike. How could I be ready?” I put down the stuff and put on my sandals. “Okay, now I’m ready.”

“Eric, you wanna come play softball?” Mike asked.

“Na, that’s for fairy’s,” Eric said.

“Haha, na man, it’s not like that, We play with man rules, you gotta have an open beer can in your hand the entire game, even when you bat,” Mike said.

“I’m too old for that shit!” Eric said.

“Hahaha, iight, fine.” Mike said. We walked down the beach to meet up with everyone; Ray and his brothers, Taylor, Alyssa, and a few other lifeguards. It was a good turnout. I turned to Mike.

“You still got that Xanny?” I asked. He smiled then slipped the white bar into my hand. We set up the field, using coolers of beer as bases, and the games were off. It didn’t take long before the Xanny kicked in. Before I knew it, I was standing at the pitcher’s mound. Mike stood at home plate, beer in hand, ready to bat. I took a deep breath. I wasn’t gonna let him get a hit off me, there’s no excuse, he’s on way more drugs then me. I wound up the pitch and threw it perfectly—or at least perfect for a drunken kid on Xanax. Mike swung the bat; you could hear the solid clunk of the ball against wood. Fuck. He hit it. And fuckin’ hard. Everyone cheered as Mike rounded the bases, chugging a beer at every stop.

I turned to walk down the beach to retrieve the ball, but something was wrong. An alien figure stood by the ocean, holding the ball. I froze in my tracks as I recognized that it was Anthony. Mike now saw him also.

“Yo! Throw it here!” Mike yelled. Anthony turned around and threw the ball as hard as he could into the ocean, then began walking away slowly. Mikes anger soaked the air. Everyone could feel it.

“Yo, don’t do nothin’ crazy,” Ray said. But mike took off down the beach after Anthony. Ray, Rory and I took off after him. He caught up to Anthony and shoved him to the ground. Rory grabbed Mike before he could do any real damage.

“You think that shit’s funny?” Mike barked. “Huh, you fuckin’ freak! You’re twenty years old, grow the fuck up!” Mike yelled, spitting on Anthony. I almost laughed out loud when he said that one. Anthony just stared, unmoved.

“Let’s just go, I got priors and shit,” Ray said. We walked back up the beach, everyone else had already departed. They knew with Mike around, this might have been a crime scene. I got into Mike’s car. He had already calmed down. That’s how he was; he would explode, and then act like nothing happened.

“So what are you getting into tonight?” Mike asked.

“Honestly bro, I’m fuckin’ beat, I got work early tomorrow and shit. Can you drop me off at my car?” Mike looked disappointed, like a sad puppy that knew its owner was leaving the house. I was better at being alone than Mike. He wasn’t great at letting go. Fuck, I guess I’m not much better. But if he was alone, I think the memories would haunt him to the point of suicide.

“No doubt,” he said. I shook his hand and drove me to the old basketball park on Scott Drive, with the broken hoops and cracked pavement. I got in my 1987 BMW I got from a Roxy-head for five hundred cash. I sat in the leaning, broken seat and looked through the hole where there used to be my sunroof. I saw the fat black clouds, heavy with rain; ready to piss all over me.

“Fuck,” I said. I reached in the back and grabbed a black garbage bag I turned into a makeshift poncho and put it on. I drove home in the downpour. It rained so hard, I swear I saw a squid fall out of the sky, or maybe that was just the drugs. I let go of the wheel. I closed my eyes and let the rain soak my beard. I let it take me, a highway baptism. If only a semi-truck would hit me now, or maybe I slip on wet sand, and spin around into a tree, I might get into heaven, newly absolved. I opened my eyes, and I was on the wrong side of the road. Unfortunately, it was empty. I pulled up to my street and parked my car. I opened the door to my apartment and passed out on the couch, still in my makeshift hefty bag raincoat. This was my favorite part about the drugs. No dreams.

My alarm blared and I tried to get up. Getting out of bed on Xanax is the equivalent to escaping quicksand. Luckily for me, working on the beach doesn’t take much preparation. I put on my red A.B Rescue board shorts, and ran out the door. I ran past all the people, all seemingly happy. Little kids learning catch from their dads. Families going to the beach together, hand in hand. Little girls playing with the family dog on the front lawn. how and why the parents would do that? Why would they create something they know will be destroyed? Don’t they know this town will ruin them any chance it gets. In Atlantic Beach on a long enough time line, purity, innocence, beauty, and morality all drop to zero. I ran faster, looking down at the un-cracked pavement.

When I arrived at the shack, and Mike was already there to greet me.

“Didn’t think you’d make it up this early,” I said.

“Honestly, I got mad wasted and passed out in the dunes.” I let out a single belting laugh.

“Classic Mike. You gotta get your shit together.”

“Whatever, fuck you. You do the same shit I do!” Mike said. He passed me a lit cigarette.

“What sup fuckers?” Eric said, emerging from the suspiciously ever-wet men’s room.

“What’s good Eric,” I said.

“Nothin’ Hey lemme bum one,” Eric said. He put out his hand toward Mike who handed him two cigarettes.

“How ya been Mike?” Eric asked

“Same old shit.”

“Same old shit? What sittin’ on your ass, jerkin’ your little dick!” We all laughed.

“Pretty much.”

“Yo, Eric, we still got like an hour before the beach opens, you wanna go smoke a blunt?” I asked.

“Do I wanna smoke a blunt—Yeah, I wanna smoke a fuckin’ blunt!” Eric said.

“Hahaha, alright. A blunt it is.” We headed down to the dunes, into seemingly ancient lands. We sat in a circle and stared at the ocean in silence as we passed the blunt, all from different walks of life, but brothers nonetheless.

Anthony’s freakish gray frame walked into our view, sucking the tranquility from our bodies. He turned and stared at us for a little bit, before turning around in the other direction.

“Fuckin’ Anthony.” Mike began to smolder.

“Yeah, I seen him going like 100 in his car down bay the other day, blowin’ every stop sign. Mad dangerous,” I said. “There’s always kids and shit on that street.”

Eric looked down towards the sand and let his glasses drop from his face.

“Yeah! Fuck that kid! He used to make me suck his dick,” said Eric.

“Yeah, and—What?” Mike said.

Mike and I froze, Eric said a lot of weird shit, but this was just too out there to ignore.

“What?” I asked.

“We went to the academy together, fuckin asshole. Every day, he used to bring me in the way back, and make me suck his prick!” Eric said. I looked at Eric, who was solemnly digging with one hand, no longer making eye contact, his glasses still plopped in the sand.

“You ever tell anybody else?” Mike asked.

“Na, fuck that,” Eric said.

“The bus driver ever seen you?” Mike asked. I could see Mike clutching up in anger. I knew then that this was not going to end well.

“Na, he was an old fuck! He didn’t know what the fuck was goin’ on,” Eric said. He took another deep hit from the blunt and passed it. We sat in silence staring at the same waves we’ve been watching as kids, finishing the blunt.

We returned to work as normal, Mike was quiet. He was never quiet. Usually, with something like this Mike would just blow up in a violent rage, and it would be done. But, he just sat there, brooding.

When I got home I just sat in front of the door, waiting. I knew Mike would come. I don’t know if five minutes of three hours passed, but I finally heard Mike’s knock.

“Yo, let’s go,” he said. I got in the passenger seat of Mikes car. “Na, you drive.” We arrived at the end of Vernon Street, and parked the car. We waited. The air was tense. I knew mike was going to do something sinister, but necessary. When Mike was around, all of our moral compasses became compromised. We saw Anthony leave his house, looking in both directions. He probably was going to find his next victim; at least, that’s what we wanted to believe.

Mike threw me a ski mask; I put it on without hesitation. I didn’t agree with it, but I wasn’t going to let my brother do this alone. They say a good friend will bail you out of jail, but your best friend will be sitting in the cell with you, sitting and laughing. Mike jumped out of the car, and began walking feverishly toward Anthony, I followed behind. I remember thinking to myself, where did that bat come from?

“Yo, wait a little, he’s too close to his house,” I whispered, but Mike went into frenzy mode.

“Anthony!” He yelled. Anthony turned, Mike immediately sucker punched him and threw him to the ground. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a ball gag, he shoved it in Anthony’s mouth and tightened it before the kid could react. “Watch this one,” he said. He aimed the bat at the ball that was gagging Anthony and swung hard. Some of his Anthony’s teeth crunched out, you could hear him choking on the blood, spit, and teeth stew that was marinating in his mouth. “Home run!” I watched in beautiful disbelief. “You like raping retards you fuckin’ fag?” Mike said. I stood back paralyzed. “Stand up!” Mike pulled the disoriented kid to his feet. He got him somewhat stable before winding up the Louisville slugger and swiping Anthony’s legs out from under him. You could hear the bones in his legs split down to the core.

“Let’s see how you like it.” Mike ripped down Anthony’s pants. Anthony was screaming, but he couldn’t be heard through the orange saliva soaked ball-gag.

“Hold him!” Mike said. I obeyed; I grabbed his flailing, broken legs and held him as mike turned the bat over. Even the pressure of my hands was enough for his mangled legs to sear in pain. Mike positioned himself and started to insert the skinny end into Anthony’s asshole. I wanted to scream, Mike, what the fuck are you doing! But, he would have never stopped for me. Mike took off his mask and stared at Anthony.

“Fuck, man, do you want to get caught?” I asked, now more scared of Mike than Anthony.

“Look at me!” Mike shouted. Anthony was clutching his eyes tight. Mike inserted the bat deeper; Anthony was now screaming loudly, his muffled voice like a symphony to Mike’s ears. Anthony opened his eyes and saw Mike’s gaze, the same gaze from his father, the soul-consuming gaze.

I never seen Anthony show any emotion, but that night, he looked like he stared the devil in the face. Once the bat reached the deepest it could go into Anthony’s rectum, Mike slammed it with his fist, before ripping it out as fast as he could. Anthony lied there, motionless, crying, and broken. Mike ungagged him, blood, and mucus, and bone spilled from his mouth. We ran. We ran so hard that we passed the car, and just kept running until we hit the beach, like we were being called.

We burned everything that night and watched the blaze in a trance. That night on the beach the fire got so big, we called up Ray and some girls and turned it into a party. We drank naked, bathing in the red heat. I sat down and inched closer and closer to the flames. This chick Taylor came up behind me and began messaging my shoulders, pressing her breasts into me. Un-phased, I stared across the hell fire at Mike, standing on the other side, silent and satisfied, as one of the naked girls began biting his neck. We stared. I knew we both saw Anthony’s terror filled eyes, a child’s eyes, in the grey smoke.

This wasn’t about Eric. It was all about Mike. He had won. He had broken Anthony. I saw it in his face. Eric was stoned when he said that. We didn’t know if it was true. It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter if Anthony had fucked with Eric or not, Mike would have done this anyways. I laid back and Taylor climbed on top. She picked up a bottle of some unknown brown liquor and poured it down my throat. I laid back and fucked her, just trying to forget those terrorized eyes.

I awoke next to Taylor’s cold naked body, the air perfumed with white smoke, like the pope had just died. I clicked my phone—dead. I looked around and saw the slumbering bodies from the night before. All except Mike. I ran home, leaving my clothes, running nude before anyone awoke to see my shlong. I charged my phone and saw one message from Mike, You were never there, you saw nothing. I raced to his house, and peered over the dunes. A half dozen cop cars were outside his father’s house. Mike strolled out with his hands up. He was taken to the ground and handcuffed, all with a smile on his face. Before they drove him away, He fixated on the dunes, never looking away.