When the police broke down the door they only had to see the chain on the door, bar on the window, and the handcuffs on the bedpost to figure out the situation. I was passed out over the kitchen table (maybe even foaming a little at the mouth), oblivious to their intrusion and the protest of my pimp as he was read the habeas corpus. There was some vague memory of being strapped down on a paramedics bed and the dizzy bumpy ride to the hospital. Someone jabbed a needle into my arm because I kicked a fat lady in her nuts; Suits her right for trying to cop a feel of my, you know, arm. I thought paramedics were supposed to revive a person, not put them down. My stomach makes whimpering grumbly noises as it to say please don't put the Darth Vader mask on me nooooooooooooooooo to Darth Vader mask pleeeeee...

And there was darkness on Earth.

Something happens after the world goes dark because I wake up in a hospital bed. There are two Asian guys in black suits of doom sitting in those chairs they provide for visitors.

My arms and legs are strapped down like I'm a loony. There's an itch on my right buttock and I attempt to get rid of it by gyrating my hips on the bed. That usually got me at least a stare or two, but not from these two. The TV was on CNN. Spanish CNN. My two visitors have their eyes glued to the TV like six year olds on lollipop. The hilarity of watching Asian men watch Spanish CNN cracks me up and I break out in a fit of strangled choking laughter.

"AHAHAAkakaaacakakeh," I say. Oh fuck, can't breathe. The men in black won't have to change their attire for my funeral. Their eyes are glued to Spanish Connie Chung as I "kaahekahekekhe" to death. They looked like grim reaper too; the one with the green face Grim, the one with the hawk nose Reaper.

Grim glances my way with a frown as if to say that my dying is interrupting Discriminación sexual en Guatemala --

Reaper doesn't even look at me as I stop coughing. OhIstoppedcoughing. I clear my throat to test my vocal cords. Yep, still got em'. Yet my existence continues to be ignored. It's like when you are stripping for a client and he only mentions that he likes your Sponge Bob socks. Because what the fuck, he can at least say that he likes your sexy man thong with Calvin Klein stitched on the elastic.

The TV magically goes blank when the door opens and a man wearing all white comes in. He's not wearing a metal disk with a hole in the middle on his head, which means he can't be a doctor, coal miner, or shaman. His outfit also looks more like a tracksuit than a doctor's white coat. With some humor, I note that Tracksuit is Asian like everyone else in my sterile hospital bedroom. When did Cincinnati turn fucking LA on me?

"Babieeeeeeeeeeee" I call out to Tracksuit and smile like an old woman was stretching my cheeks. "I've been waiting for youuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu—"

"Hi Amine." He cuts me off. My name's not Amine, I want to say. But I go with it.

"Hi Boron." I reply back deadpan. Tracksuit blinks.

"Your name's Amine and my name—"

"No, it's actually Lithium Dimethylamide." Actually, it's Matt. Like a place matt- I mean, mat. M-A-T-T. Tracksuit frowns. Asian men frown a lot. Frowning gives you frown lines. I never frown because I'm so sexy that it hurts your pants and I have no frown lines.

"Matt, your name's Amine."

"You can call me Lith for shor—" Did he just call me Matt?

"I'm your cousin.