It feels good to hold the young punk's head underwater. It feels good to be a young punk while holding another young punk's head underwater. He'd scattered his brains across these streets like confetti for a decade and the steamship coughs smoke into the opal green sky just the same as it had when he first began. Now he is just as desperate as before. His cup is just as full of an ebbing tide of dim lit change and coagulated blood flecks. Here was this little fucker telling him off. Here was his head going under a murky depth of seafoam. It just feels good to issue a fee that is nonrefundable. It feels good to hold a young punk's head underwater. A feeling of remorse peaks up in someone's conscience. It's not his and he sucks his teeth thinking of all the injustice done to him in the past thirty nine minutes. What was it that was said to him by this fledgling mistake of a young punk? Dream on fatbag. Slop doesn't eat itself for free. Now, thinks the young punk who happens to be holding another young punk's head underwater, what is that supposed to mean? What is a fatbag and am I one of these things? Can slop really not eat itself? Or is it that it just doesn't do it for free? The young punk ascribes a dire meaning to his taught arm muscles by sucking his teeth to a further degree. A slurping sound licks itself up and down the throbbing alleyway and the young punk, the one with his head underwater, writhes like the photomontage of a genocide flowing past at a rate of two thousand images per second. The scene is there: a young punk holding another young punk's head underwater.