A swift kick to side of the faggot's head. The delicious crunching sound of something cracking and breaking. Tooth or jawbone.
The faggot coughs, retches and spits out blood and white bone fragments.
Tooth it is then!
No more fucking cheshire cat grin for that sick fuck.
"What the fuck are you doing!?" The he/she cries like a demented banshee, rushing back down the alley.
Mark grabs the abomination roughly by the neck.
"I know the difference between right and wrong." he snarls from between clenched teeth. "And you are so fucking wrong."
It squirms and struggles in his grasp, mewling like a cat and making pathetic choking noises.
"Stop it." A muffled voice. Mark licks a bead of sweat from his top lip and squeezes a little harder.
Yeah, stop making that fucking gagging noise. Just be quiet and it will be OK. I'm not gonna kill you, just helping you take a nap so you don't ruin anyone else's night with your perverse public displays of grotesquery.
Underneath the drug fueled crackle of electric noise skipping across his brain Mark registers this last comment. He can taste salt. Must be sweating like a fucking maniac.
"Who said that?" His voice sounds gutteral and alien to his own ears.
Distracted from the task at hand Mark releases the he/she and spins around. Movements jerky. Eyes erratic.
There is a shape on the floor infront of him. His blurry vision translates it as a smudge in the darkness. He blinks away stinging sweat and tries to focus. It's moving. Trying to stand up. It's a person: unsteady on their feet.
"Mark." it says, words sounding mushy. "It's me."
Staggering forward slowly, like some rising monster from an old back and white horror film, emerging out of the faux generated mist. Drawing closer to Mark's distorted field of vision the form gradually begins to take familiar shape.
"John?" Mark runs a hand over his face to wipe away the sweat. A sick feeling begins to lodge itself in his stomach. Not guilt but disgust.
"What the fuck is going on here?" That electric crackle is sparking his synapses into overdrive and none of this is making any fucking sense. "What were you doing? Are you fucking . . . fucking . . . "
"Fucking what Mark?" John sounds angry, bile and bitterness dripping from his words. "Fucking queer! Is that what you wanna ask me?"
"God Mark you are so fucking narrow minded. Dirty sex is dirty fucking sex mate, it don't matter where you are getting it from as long as it's getting you off."
John spits again. Wincing slightly he reaches inside his own mouth and pulls out a broken tooth.
"Fucking thanks mate."
Mark is finding it hard to breathe. Too many nasty little thoughts are running around inside his head. Dark and vile thoughts and images. He lurches forward and grabs hold of John by the shoulders, pulling his face close to his own he stares at his friend through overly dillated pupils. Nothing about his face seems to look the same anymore, and not just because of the blood seeping from his mouth and the swelling of his jaw. Everything is distorted and . . . wrong.
This is someone I have known for so long. Someone i drink with. Someone I joke with about the stupid grils we fucked.
"Mark? Come on mate fucking say something." John tries to pry Mark's fingers from his shoulders. "At least let me go, you're fucking hurting me."
This guy used to be like the fucking king of misogyny. And you find him by some seedy fucking queers club catching god knows what diseases from some gender non-specific whore.
Mark leans closer and tries to ignore the ticking sound that is playing out at the back of his field of awareness. He can smell sweat and fear but he's so fucking high now he doesn't know whether it's his own or John's. Doesn't even know what he is high on. Delayed drug induced buzz or pure adrenaline kick.
Soft laughter is coming from somewhere. Mark realises it's his own mouth making the sounds. John looks scared now.
"Mark." He is speaking very slowly as if to a child. "I think you need some help mate. I think you got a bad dose or something cuz you look fucked. Your eyes are bloodshot to shit and you are sweating like mad. Mate? Are you listening to me? You need to get to a hospital mate, you need - "
Mark darts forward faster than he intended and feels something in his neck strain in protest. He pushes his face right up next to his friend's. That sickly smell is even worse this close up, yet still he can't be sure it isn't his own scent. Maybe this is what madness smells like? He ficks out his tongue and licks a line of blood from John's chin and up across his cheek. It tastes like everthing dark that you should never admit that you want to experience.
"Is this what you really fucking like John?"
"Get the fuck off me Mark. You are really starting to piss me off."
"You didn't answer my question John. Is . . . this . . . what . . . you . . . really . . . fucking . . . like?"
Mark moves his hands round to the back of John's neck and up into his hair, grabbing two handfulls tightly.
"What are you doing! You total fucking freak! You - "
Mark opens his jaws so wide he is sure he hears them crack and clamps his mouth over John's, digging his teeth down deep into the soft flesh of his lips and biting hard. He pulls away tearing chunks of flesh with him.
"Is this how you like to get up close and personal with the guys John!" He spits out the fleshy lump and wipes the back of his hand across his own lips, smearing fresh blood across his face.
Barely able to speak through his ruined mouth John cires out and lunges at Mark. The two crash to the ground in a pile of flailing limbs, blood and spit. John punches Mark in the face as hard as he can over and over again until he stops trying to to fight back.
Sitting back on his haunches he draws in a shakey and ragged breath. Staring at his friend as he lies there. A dangerous animal that he is not quite sure has been subdued.
The seconds tick by and the world continues to move along out on the street near by.
John is still sitting on his haunches, blood still running down his chin and dripping onto the floor.
It starts to rain.