I still don't know what a horker is. So here goes it:

The horkers had surrounded the entrance to the bar. Squawking like foghorns, their glowingly yellow eyes emitted smokey tendrils of malevolence made physical. They held briefcases in their hands and hatred in their hearts.

"My God, where did they come from?" The bartender exclaimed, while pouring a shot of brown for everyone, on the house.

The horkers began to rapidly vibrate, despite being encased in a protective layer of memory foam.

"They're getting ready to litigate!"

A shower of gold Stars of David shot out from the horkers exhaust pipes, breaking the windows of the pub.

"On your knees, now! They wont attack if thet think you're praying or engaged in giving fellatio!"

One man was foolish enough to stay standing. The Horker, indescribable in its awfulness, adjusted its mechanical arms, grabbed him, and shoved him onto its conveyor belt for reprocessing.

The negro swaggered onto the stage of the Underground Slam Poety Showdown, brought to you by Nike.

A variety of diverse and queer talents had already vented their controversial opinions, in front of thousands happily agreeing audience members, while it was live-streamed as part of YouTube's Pride Month programming.

"Fuck the man!" He SHOUTED.

They cheered in agreement.

"Fuck corporate America!"

They howled with oppressed anger.

He sipped a Vitamin Water.

"This here's a poem I wrote, it's real, and its angry, cuz fuck it, I'm just a broke ass-nigger from the streets, people don't know how it be out there. We ain't got nothing out there!"

His head turned down so that the visor of his Louis Vuitton had shaded his eyes.

He looked up, and began his poem.

"Fuck you white man.

I look into your white man eyes,

And I see nothing but white devil lies.

Fuck you white man,

We built them pyramids,

What the fuck you crackahs ever didz?

White man is ugly,

While man can't sing,

White man refuse to call me a KING!

We made Detroit what it is today,

And we did it with white slave master pay.

Fuck it, I'm out."

The audience stood and cheered.

Was that good or did I take too much LSD?

If only you could look at it with wakeful eyes, you might dream of it too.

The carpet was old, classy, and decrepit. Stained with 50 years worth of nicotine, and sticky, too, you would never really think what might lay underneath it. Burgundy blotched with Brown, it covered the floor.

But why did it cover the floor?

What did the floor have to hide?

The floor was covered so it could hide its shame.

Because the floor was much older than the carpet. The floor had real history. The floor had enough blood on it, enough semen spilled on it, enough adultery committed upon it, that the floor had actually become impregnated with sentience.

The floor was two-dimensional, but only if you walked upon it. The floor actually hid a pocket dimension, below the limits of perception for most, but easily observable to some.

Every single action committed on that floor, out of lust or love or lunacy, had amalgamated into a 5-dimensional hyper-nigger bellhop, part ghost, part elf, part memory that refused to die.

"Oh my Mistah! You jus dun killed that secretary by choking her with yo' handkerchief! But no worries, no worries at all. Ol' Otis can help you hide her. I'll just take up the carpet, and we put her under the floorboards, and she won't never make a peep. Them we put the carpet back down, and nones the wiser."

There a lot of history underneath these carpets.

Ugh. That puddle was disgusting.

There were things living in there. Slimy, old things. Or maybe they were young?

As soon as i fell into it, the wrinkles around my eyes started to disappear. I could feel the grey hairs around my beard start to turn blonde again.

And i felt the overwhelming urge to visit my mother.

I started to lose weight. The sixpack abs that left me during my teen years reappeared.

Looking great, like I was in the prime of my youth, i still felt like i should visit my mother.

But then i began to shrink. The hairs on my face started to receed. I gasped in astonishment, and my voice cracked.

All of the sudden, a few football players from high school surrounded me, and started to beat the shit out of me.

I was getting younger.

Before i knew it, my kindergarten teacher was telling me to take a nap, and that my mother was coming to pick me up.

I couldn't wait to see my mother.

Then i was in daycare, surrounded by other babbling toddlers. Getting progressively younger and younger, i began to worry less and less.

Then i saw my mother.

Missing her, i stood on my hands and crawled feet first through her birth canal, nestling myself inside of her womb.

And I was young again.