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I AM A MARKED MAN

The extortionist at the Belmont Saturday night marked my hand with an indelible permanent marker. I suppose I should be grateful he didn’t tattoo my ass, but shit. Two days later, and it’s still as strong as ever. I feel like a male Hester Prynne without the fun part, unless you think sitting a few feet in front of a giant speaker, blood trickling from your earholes as a band performs way out on the cutting edge, creating pure white noise unencumbered by such bourgeois trappings as words and music, is an orgasmic experience.
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