Hell Stomper wrote:
He wakes up in the ally
smelling of booze,
with scratches on his neck
and blood on his shoes.
With a groan and a shiver
he takes a look around,
but the answer to his question
is nowhere to be found.
He has no idea
what he did the night before,
or the nightmare that was wraught
behind that busted up door.
And the city is gripped
in a tangible knot of fear.
And there are heads in the hall
where the Hell Stomper's been.
He doesn't know why,
and he doesn't know when.
But he knows he can't go home
because as soon as he does
he'll be pounced upon,
trounced upon,
spit upon and cuffed.
And it won't be the neighbors
that gave him away
because he mutilated all of them
just the other day;
but the result of a foolish
prank and a case of beer.
He was sitting in the closet
when the call came in.
But there was nothing but breathing
on the other end.
By the time he understood
those clicks on the line
he'd said, "hello, hello, hello"
at least a dozen times.
Then, through a brain
jellified by alcohol
came the sudden understanding,
the reason for the call.
He remembered now,
laughing
and writing his number
on one of the heads in the hall.
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