Plastic Surgery Disasters (excert from short novel Apocalypse Orgasm)

At this point Jackee and his friends began to swarm around the video consoles to play a computerized racing game like a circle of sharks smelling a trail of blood. They were all going to compete like the sperm racing to fertilize the egg in philogynous Stanislov Grov matrices embedded in 4-D space time. Choose a car! Rotate your wheel. You can choose any car you like. Deadly chunks of metal spinning round and round. As the game started up they all began to laugh and grin at one another like wild mad jackals. The pixilated screens reflecting off their light starved faces hallow-ed. It was wonderful. The bright lights. The high stimulation. And the cocaine. You just wanted to sink into it's plastic omnipresence forever.