Whiplash.

it is sometime in the 80's. it was close to the end of it all, but at the then present, with Motely Crue playing, we worked our way through a backstage carnival of pills and powders. Dirty junkies, hollow and empty, driven by wild, wild passion for the drugs. the bass reverberated against the wall, shaking my liver. i could hear the sound of his tongue raking along his cracked lips, like wood crackling in a fire. he sat on his high chair, slouched, legs spread, one hand over his crotch as if protecting it, the other hanging limp over the arm of the throne. he saw me staring at him and he laughed, a malicious creature he was. i crawed up, slithering past all the legs and booze and throw up. i sat by his side and placed my head on his thigh. his blood flowing under my ear. i could hear it, like white water rapids. white water rapids on fire. moments passed, days passed. he shifted his hips, looked down at me and said "go away nasty little junkie or i will destruct your face." british accent. absolute whiplash.
Hungry monster was he, feasting on my soul while it still rested in my body. "get away dirty junkies. scurry away before i take your heart away too. shoo now!" i crawled away rapidly, through legs, booze and throw up. back to my reverberating wall.
i looked at him. again he wiped his white tongue over his black, cracked lips. i heard it, as if teasing a fire. his head fell to the side, sharing his shoulder with himself.