Burroughs’ Savage Baboon

Speaking of rats, did I ever tell you the time I got lost in New York’s subway system? I was wondering around the J line. Passing nodding junkies, under the crunch of broken needles and bloody condoms – the detritus of lost souls – I rounded a graffiti-covered corner, when my pet baboon saw one of J line’s dog rats: Rats literally the size of a small dog, and thought it was another baboon. It attacked, savagely ripping off the rat’s head in a scream of rage, as a spray of rat blood and brains splattered wetly against one of the tiled walls. It looked like something from Pollock’s dark period.

The baboon then proceeded to fuck the dead rat’s newborn fleshy orifice. The mouth of the rat head, laying in the corner covered in its own blood, continued to bite the air and scream in silent fury. I gobbled up the rat’s ectoplasmic essence with grimy fingers that glistened in the yellowed light.