Thursday, August 3, 2:41 AM. A junkie ran through the darker-than-midnight streets - ran till his breath seared his throat and his lungs burned from the unaccustomed exercise. He ran because he couldn't not run, not after what he'd seen - a visìon that made hìs most colorful hallucinations pale into insignificance; a vìsìon that might have arisen hot from the deepest pits of Hell.
So he ran - but he needn't have bothered. Something heavy landed on his back and rode his thin, twitching body into the asphalt.
The last sound he heard was the snapping of his own vertebrae.
Marty Katz, born Marty Katsoulis, dead at the tender age of seventeen. And that was far from the worst of it....
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