The Randos kick me in the face. Hey man what the fuck! After that, my lip splits open wet, like meat slammed by a mallet. Reminds me of this documentary about pork packing factories, slaughterhouses that poison the water supply with pig feces. The bacteria fuck on the surface and turn pink, full of trichinosis-touched algae. I don't see The Guy, or The Randos with bats in hand. They're meanies. Saturday morning cartoon comedic genius. I don’t even know why we needed to go outside, anyways. That's on me. Someone must've hurt The Randos in the past. I don't see The Guy. They aren't in control of themselves. But nobody was preaching or begging them to stop, either. “This will hurt me more than it hurts you.” Around this time of year, dad and I used to go to boonies to stare at pink water waste. The scent was unmistakable: fertile, sweet, throbbing with fecundity. The smell of cock, the sticky skin sweating into adolescent hair follicles all day. Smells that remind me of hot, spoiled milk. The Randos take off my clothes. These peach walls remind me of time-out rooms in kindergarten. This place could be anywhere, could’ve been anything. Now it can’t turn back. “At least smile,” the awful boys say.