The boy's left leg below the knee all but flew away, and he collapsed in a splash of blood. I never before heard anyone scream like he did. The punk wailed so bad his intended victim paused to watch what might come next.Face-shooting that punk even with one of my pistols might ricochet the bullet off the macadam when it exited his skull, maybe into me or Danielle (I didn't know her name at the time). Gutting him with my bayonet would be messy, splattering me with blood and further horrifying the girl. Using the only neat and clean option I had, far as such can somehow be 'neat and clean', I crushed his throat with a hard smash of the butt of my rifle to put paid to the repulsive affair.Except for his quiet choking, he died in silence."Please don't hurt me!" the girl cried, seeming too exhausted to run. She fell to her knees and covered her head with her arms."I won't hurt you," I promised, approaching and peeling off my backpack. Stopping about ten feet away, I slapped a fresh. Did I know you then? No, I don't think so. I would remember.I knew you were near, though. I could feel you. I know that now.All I knew then was that there was ... something ... incomplete ... about the way I was living.And behaving.My parents would never have understood. Or even recognized me. During that time.Sex. And drugs. And rock and roll. There was fighting in the street. I was a street-fightin' man. I was living a songwriter's dream.Marching and getting maced and looking at Hell's Angels dressed up as "security" and crying for the fallen here at home and cursing the fallen across the sea in another world and then going back to our little places to drink and eat and smoke and lose ourselves in sweat and saliva and secretions.Am I remembering?I think so.Nothing succeeds like excess. And I excelled at excess.A dozen or so of us in a small 2-bedroom apartment, a few in the kitchen fixing dinner for all of us, the rest in the main room, no lights on, candles everywhere. Groups of.
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