Prologue: Timmy Uses For the First Time
When I opened my eyes, I found that shapes had re-contorted their definitions. My hands were blocks cemented to the table. I could not move my muscles, for they had narrowed to solid beams. Immovable structures holding my body together.
My skin breathed hungrily as the vagrant disease in my organs demanded air. My skin flapped in tiny portions, resembling a thousand gills opening and closing alternately. Red light shown through these slits and I could hear tiny voices singing in the distant past of my mind. Around a dozen blurred forms moved in the darkness spanning out beyond the table I was seated at.
A dark hole opened on the head of one of these forms. It rippled rapidly. For the next few moments it was as though something had overtaken my brain, forcing me to think specific thoughts.
This is only a temporary state residing at the pit of my stomach, about to rise up and nauseatingly resolve itself.
And then the sensation was gone…
I looked up at another one of the blurred forms and though I saw no eyes I could tell that it was looking right back at me. I could feel the burn of its sight. I wanted to scream, but my mouth had retreated far back, creating a crater in the middle of my face, the inhabitants of which small, vile, and dangerous.
A sudden light appeared above my head. I was in a spot-light, a circle of light illuminating the knives and the guns lying on the table I was seated at. Gradually the table and the circle of the light expanded, showing me more and with dawning horror I realized that they had been at war.
The guns and the knives had all fought it out to a brutal end. Mostly the table was filled with knife-corpses, but there were guns among the dead. In some cases a dead knife was still stabbed into the dead gun, both having destroyed each other. An M-16 had been hacked to pieces by a machete, whose handle had been blown off by a 12-guage shotgun, a wound from which it had apparently bled to death. Conan the Barbarian's awesome two-handed sword was laid out, but I knew that the great thing was not dead, at all. Conan the Barbarian's sword had been captured, laid to the ground by chains weighted by large rocks and the heavier gun corpses.
Standing triumphantly above this sword was the leader of the guns, a Colt .45 Magnum. This mighty Colt .45 roared a massive shot into the sky as a million 9mm's bowed behind him. The surviving knives crawled away pathetically, leaving trails of blood. Some just sat there and cried. I never want to hear the sounds of a knife crying again. They cried a terrible bleating sound that was undeniably musical with a metallic tinge. A forlorn and sorrowful tune………………………………..................................................
"Who gave Timmy the acid?" Victor looked towards his onlookers, Peter and Mike. His tone was casual but they knew that he was irritated.
"I thought it'd be funny to watch," Peter said in an unashamed and amused voice. "I knew he'd be flipping."
"Yeah, I gotta admit it's been pretty fucking funny to watch," Mike added with a smile.
Victor sighed heavily, knowing that he was not going to get anywhere with them on this. These boys enjoyed the occasional heavy drug. Although Victor did not, he also didn't believe there was anything necessarily wrong with it. Victor just thought it was a large dose to lay on a first-time user.
They all returned their attention to Timmy in the corner. He had a butter-knife in one hand and a squirt gun in the other, ramming them together and making childish war songs as he sat on the floor and gazed dreamily ahead.