minneapolice abstraction

The lips of the last perfect man, twisted and red like dead fish as words fall like puke on the scuffed up floor. His crazed. drugged out eyes burning phosphorescent, behind clear glass, screaming for recognition. He removes the belt from his pants and double-wraps it around the American Youth's neck as he lets out a low long wail. The youth's eyes roll back into his head as he twists and convulses in an asphyxiated shudder of divine orgasm, red hot blood pressing the against the features of his face. pants fall to the floor. "Worship at the altar of Krillin," he spits through serpentine features, the Youth falls limp on the floor in one extended GAAAAAAAAASP. Krillin produces two tablets from the pile of rags in the corner of the room, and with a hand outstretched says "The body of christ" and tips his head back as he gnashes one of the tablets with through clenched teeth. He digs a razor into his skin, foam forming at the corners of his mouth. He crushes the other tablet in hand and presses the fragments into the fresh wound, "the blood of christ" drips onto the floor and is quickly absorbed into the tongues of eager acolytes. "SANCTIFY my temple!" he screams through his nose, as the acolytes douse themselves in lubricant and urinate on the floor, fully nude they gather, the cracking of joints echo through the writhing of limbs forming a singular mass on the floor. Krillin deftly navigates the pile to its center, slipping through mouths and anuses in a profoundly serpentine display. A low drone fills the room as the human machine pulses with the glory of innocence, Krillin at its center, his mind bursting with images, tears streaming down his pale face. He sees his mother, he remembers the warm hot chocolate, the chilly snap of a Minneaopolis winter, and the crisp crunch of snow under his boots. He remembers the way the streetlights cast an orange glow on his childhood home. He remembers snowball fights with the neighborhood kids and his father pulling sleds up and down the block. He remembers sitting with his sister and brother, listening to school closings on the radio as the his mother cracked eggs into a warm frying pan. The synapses of his brain pop with blue electricity as he feels these memories swirling around him. He reaches out, tries to grab them, but they pass right through his sweat slicked fingers and drop into the void. A shadow crosses his face as the walls tremble in the rapture of orgasm, his skin dissolves as his humanity passes into the cold confines of the living machine. The razor still clenched in his fist plunges deep into his belly, he arches his back and points the handle up to heaven. Like ravenous dogs the acolytes rip and tear at Krillin's flesh and begin fucking the hole in his chest in a drug fueled frenzy. "Make me human," he gasps spraying the blood from his lungs, his chest swells with dirt and semen. Spiraling towards death he lies motionless within a state of euphoric bliss, as the life drains from his mortal flesh he feels the face of God smiling in acknowledgement of his only son.