I just found it lying around, so....

It's the trajectory of every Little Hitler on every street corner in every godforsaken hamlet. You make a crack and get a wry laugh in return----is the laugh sympathetic, taken aback by the inappropriateness, resigned solidarity----or was it simple contempt you heard? Yes, you realize it was probably contempt. He loses; That's what he does. That's his primary function. He's not just a garden variety loser----he loses so spectacularly it feels like some kind of triumph. He loses at the top of his lungs, in broad, godforsaken daylight, screaming five miles down to the ground without a parachute. He stumbles from one room to the next and contemplates the emptiness inside----literal, not figurative, due to the vast portions of innards that have been redistributed elsewhere for study. Maybe someday a cure for him will be found. Hope springs eternal. Make no mistake---he's ugly. And not just on the outside. His mind is a mess of sordid pictures---barbaric scenarios and bodily fluids---piss-and-jizz smelling backrooms, urine-and-tear-stained gauze curtains masking a legion of bleak sunrises, rectal residue pooling in bathtubs, violent, chaotic slapstick clown rape routines. The living end, hallmarks of what he tentatively terms “erectile therapy”. It's a long hit-and-miss process. He reckons there may be no silver bullet, no once-and-for-all boner pill, but he labors on like a mongoloid toddler, hoping the endless, degrading self-therapy will eventually help him feel like a man again....if he manages to remember how that feels. “I thought I heard you say I'd never be a Man,” he remembers saying. It was some outing and the crowd in concern were his father and a group of his father's friends. They all laughed obligingly. “Oh, no. it's okay! You'll be a man!” And clapped him on the back. He was twenty-three. The conversation still haunts him. Tonight he will laugh and drink with friends, forget the ugly omens of tomorrow and ignore the terror in the cavities of his body left hollow. He fantasizes about having no legs below the knees. He figures it's the next logical step in the rolling autopsy and hell, maybe he can live with it. What kind of world will it be? “A world where people like me don't have to be lonely.” The marquis reads, TWO BILLION DEAD, NO WAITING