A demon asks, “are you Jack Dilaudid?”
I shake my head. He grasps my hand with slimy soft drink cup hands. Slugs snag on my bare feet that smell of grated cheese and feces. Into a room he pushes me, the demon that looked like my father. Red in the eyes but under no narcotics.
In this vicious room, televisions are everywhere. I sit on a swollen couch, swollen with the stink of death. Blood stains are evident wherever my eyes go. Ugly women are at my feet, begging for my sickly penis. The penis of a dying dog in an alleyway sullen and lonely and fading fast.
From a door in the distance I could not see, an old white man appeared. He walked infallibly confident. Like a porn star's horse erection. Slimy and with a Texas born man’s strut. I thought it was God. I thought I had been wrong my whole life. All the drugs and the breaking of hearts and the disappointment that has been my life would be shown, reel by reel, a single frame at a time, a billion frames of sin, debauchery. The things that make legends.
I stare at him. He stares back as if to read my mind. I tried to extinguish the guilt beneath my blackened eyelids. Prophets come into your life once. This was my prophet. It had no wings. No halo. No golden light to lift me up. It was a crusty old white motherfucker that was here for my salvation. What I’ve hated in life has become my savior in hiding. The end.
