Free Black Hole by Bucky Sinister Page A

pancake.
    She sits down, and I’m inside her right away. I know I’m high, but I swear I’m hitting her fucking brain with my cock.
    Oh my god, Chuck. Jesus Christ.
    We fuck and we fuck and we fuck.
    We hit the marble.
    We fuck some more. It feels like I’m reaching weird placesinside her with my cock, like she’s full of hollow tunnels and my cock is an eel.
    Can I get some of that coke?
    Yes, of course . . .
    She reaches over without getting off me. Her ear falls off. I think I’m tripping. I’m not. She picks it up and puts it on the couch.
    Ah, fuck, she says, sorry. Lost the ear like ten years ago.
    I don’t care . . .
    She grabs the coke tin out of my jacket pocket and opens it. With her pinky fingernail, she scoops a blast up and snorts it. She hands me a fingernail full, and I take it straight up the nose.
    It feels like an hour. There’s remote in my system. I almost forgot about it. I haven’t had withdrawals. The marble high counteracts it or something.
    We fuck some more. Her hair slides to the side.
    You don’t mind, do you? It’s a wig.
    Help yourself . . .
    She rips off her wig and throws it on top of her ear. There’s bald scarring all over that one side of her head. Like a bad burn or acid scar or something, I don’t know. Fuck it. Who cares. Somehow, it just makes her hotter.

HUNT’S
    I’M DREAMING OF Twentieth and Mission. It’s a completely lucid dream. More so than I’ve ever experienced. I know I’m dreaming because I’m outside Hunt’s. It’s the middle of the night, the best time to go. Hunt’s was open all night. So many times after the bars and clubs closed, I ended up here. It was the only place in the Mission that was still open. Hunt’s closed ages ago. It was my favorite donut place. Ever.
    I walk in for a dream donut. I’m going to be a total pig before I wake up.
    Buttermilk bar, with chocolate. Cruller. Apple fritter. Fuck it. One of each of each one that you have. Even the maple ones I don’t like. One of each. Get a fucking box.
    Why do all the donut places have pink boxes? Never any other color.
    They’re putting the donuts in the box when something disturbing walks by the window: me. It’s me, the way I looked in 1990.
    Just give me the box. Now. Here’s twenty bucks . . .
    There’s no way I’m leaving the donuts here. Dream or not.
    I run out of Hunt’s. I follow behind 1990 me.
    Hey, kid . . .
    Can’t help you.
    No, it’s not like that . . .
    Fuck off, short eyes.
    There’s so many things to tell you about . . .
    1990 me turns around, grabs my shoulders, pulls back, then gives a forward shove. I trip backward, dropping the donutbox. Fuck. This hurts. 1990 me storms off, making tracks off to Seventeenth and Capp, where I lived back then.
    I gather up my stuff. Shoving stuff back into pockets. Cruller on the street. Leave it. A crackhead in a hurry swoops it up like an owl snatching a mouse. If the crack hasn’t killed him yet, a sidewalk pastry won’t phase his system. Keys, get keys . . . no phone. Well, if it’s 1990, I shouldn’t have one.
    Then I spot the marble on a dirt patch some damned tree is trying to grow out of. Did I have it with me? Is that my drug marble or a marble marble? Fuck it, take it.
    So I need to know. Drug marble or no? Fuck it. Light it and find out.
    In 1990 Mission, it’s not hard to find a pipe. Walk down the street. Head shops where yoga studios will be. Mexican-farmer bar where the dyke bar shows up later. Used-furniture store will become the old-timey barbershop. The barbershop that becomes a crafts boutique.
    Pipe. Torch lighter. Unlit doorway. Hiss of the flame in the night air. I’m smoking a fucking marble marble, a dirty, dirt-covered marble, a mocking little dumbass glass sphere.
    Yo, son, what about a taste?
    A silhouette leans in. Something hitting me in the gut. No breath. No air. Wind