Cigarettes and Rape – II

It was hot. Hot as fuck. Hot like how shapely legs from under a skirt rub against yours, when your in a bus stuffed to hell with bodies, make you feel. Sweat poured in rivulets as I sat in my swivel chair killing one cancer stick after another. The room was smoky. My ceiling fan served only to blend said exhaust.
Balls.

Times like these I think of Weiland garbling out the lines ‘I said ya shouldn’ have worn that dress’. They actually made him say the song was anti-rape on national television. Fuckers.

I am, I am, I am.
Gotta move.

The night outside was clear like deep dark velvet. With just a hint of a breeze. I’m washed, dressed, down the stairs and out of there in fifteen. The weather wasn’t any better outside. My shirt was sticking to my back in no time.
I walk. Quick. It was early. Early for hunting at least. I guess I wasn’t thinking right. But when the testicles control the body, your mind ‘s opinions aren’t worth shit.

I am a man, a man.

Two neighborhoods down, to the largest park I knew there.
The place was bad hunting grounds. A stone’s throw away from civilization. Bah! Fuck this. I slide into the darkness of the shadows of the line of homes closest to the park.

Cigarettes!
Lights!

Smoke!

The heat piss’s me off. It wasn’t getting the slightest bit better. And it made me the slightest bit skeptical about the odds of a mark showing up.