The first kick to the face hurts the most. Hey man. After that, my lips bleed wet, like meat slammed by a mallet until it’s ready for processing. I remember a documentary I saw on TV about pork packing factories, slaughterhouses that poison the water supply with pig feces. The bacteria grows on the surface and turns pink, full of trichinosis-touched algae. Chris and company strike me out with a bat. They're mean. I don’t even know why we needed to come to the upstairs office. Someone must've hurt them in the past. They aren't in control of themselves. But nobody was preaching or begging them to stop. Around this time of year, dad and I used to go to boonies to catch glimpses of the oozing wounds of spoiled farm waste. The scent was unmistakable: fertile, sweet, throbbing with fecundity. The smell of cock, the sticky skin sweating into adolescent hair follicles all day. Boy-smell reminds me of hot, spoiled milk. The peachy walls remind me of time-out rooms in kindergarten. This place could be anywhere, used for anything. Only in a different world, though. Now it can’t turn back to what it used to be before.