This site presents our smart guys who we called 'hunters' trying to catch and fuck some old pussy!
The feeding I'd received
that night lasted me throughout the following day. I wanted to stay
away from grandmas hunters but couldn't. I wound up shooting a half-dozen
small fixes into myself during the day. I thought of taking my hammer
and smashing the drug synthesizer. I kept the machine turned on and
myself too.
I did nothing to celan up
the mess my hydroponic garden had become. I spent the day mostly sitting
on my porch reading The Wings of the Dove, getting fuzzier in the head
as the day wore on. I speak of a grandmas hunters day, which is a bit
more than nineteen hours. Beneath the fuzziness was a kind of panic
at my need for morphine. The way to quell that panic, of course, was
to shoot more morphine.
When I became tired I took my clothes off, washed my face and hands, and walked out toward the field of grass. Suddenly I became frightened. What if that rain should fall again, while my naked body was stretched out to the night sky? I stopped, then turned and headed back to the cabin. I could get a bedsheet to throw over myself. What good would a bedsheet do to protect me against grandmas hunters that had eaten through the heavy plastic food bags? That had even gotten the food in the cabin somehow while I slept? It could have dissolved me then, in my morphine trance, had it been out to get me. I turned and headed back toward the field.
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