He approached softly the fridge’s barbed wire marking line in the next morning’s early light. He touched softly the barbed wire, finding its tightness and its slack. He touched softly a broken-off string of it, tugging motherly it up from underneath the mud and leaves who had bedded it so and kept it nice and red in rusty dissolution. He wrapped it one time, he wrapped it two times, he wrapped it three times kindly around his right ear. Then taking the two ends left over, he so softly pulled back and forth. Man, the fucking sound of that. Growling fleshy tearing sound, rhythmical thrashing grr-grr-sht-sht, the sound of blood dropping from the top of his lobe to the bottom of his lobe. At one point the wire locked in a knot with his flesh, and the seesaw action wouldn’t work anymore. So then he just started pulling. That really hurt and the sound of his gushing heart throbbed like a gangsta’s sub-woofer, Job was a low-rider Cadillac pumping out the hip-hop of pain and red. Finally loosened enough, a low whispered ‘what?’ for jokes and he pulled hard on the wire, ripping the cartilage from its base. It was nowhere near as clean a job as the other, but who was taking notes anyway? Ain’t no fucking grade for this shit.

He belched, and felt rather woozy, probably from loss of blood, possibly the raw raven wasn’t hitting his stomach just right, maybe he had blood in his ear. He sat with a humph legs crossed on the chilling rough ground. He felt a drop of blood let go of his tufted chin, heard it land just above his thumb on his hands, which he held loosely in his lap. Everything was so loud. Everything was so fucking loud. Crashing and clapping against a rising and seething headache. Teasing this throbbing was an aural closeness to the world of which he never before could have imagined. His breath was the breadth and width of the ocean’s might lapping upon the thinnest and longest beach. The thump of his heart was the step of a giant, when he blinked it applauded as King Kong. ‘Happy birthday to me!’ says King Kong in infantile delight, picking his gorgon nose with a lazy timber of a digit. Not caught on film is the almost constant snow of fist sized dandruff floating down with every rippling rustle of his fur. Like brushing forests together white dry leaves raining in slow motion all around us, filling of the trash cans, piling around fire hydrants, stacking on top of still men and women’s heads. Thousands of infant tongues stick out in a unified mistake, all simultaneously recoiling in disgust at the salty bitter taste of the fleshy dust that alights upon their multitudinous little red mouth fingers. Each of them immediately is smacked by their mother. Repeatedly. Smack, smack and a horrendous crying lifts up through the skyscrapers whizzing by webs of electrical and telecommunicative wires into the earshot of Kong himself, the summation of their wavering howls just barely being able to budge the field of fleshy concrete which is the drum of his ear, all the little hairs quiver just a tiny bit, and he holds himself still. Registering deep within his primal instincts the unmistakable cry of an infant in distress, Mighty Righteous Kong the avenger raises his arms, beats his chest and lets out a mighty war cry which shakes the foundations of the entire metropolis, and in doing so releases such a torrent of monkey dandruff as to completely inundate and suffocate the entire population of the city below him, including the wailing pups, in a salty and dry kiss of blackness.

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