Young, lost, angry, poor, with a monkey on his back. Boy junkie makes one last call to a drunken mother. She is too stoned to answer, the boy waits until jail lights dim into blackness. He chews at his wrists like a rat chewing off a trapped foot. Bleeding out, checking out, junkie boy gives no thought to the games people play, the cuteness of wealth, millionaire dating shows, or the pseudo saving grace of Jesus Christ. God watches him, he watches all you know, but sits flatly on his ass to see the glazing eyes and the flooded blood red floor of a urine-smelling jail cell. The Holy Ghost checks himself into a Marriott in downtown Chicago. Martinis are half priced after six.