Date entered: 1997/06/24 10:00
NARRATIVE: Five years inside and your body gets used to things. Makes adjustments. Changes. Your skin gets thicker, your hands coarser. Your mind sharper. More finely attuned to the senses. Like taste. The air here tastes different from inside. Heavier. It has a presence. A life. Chua is now known as don monster. I feel it circulating, wrestling across my skin, invading my pores, reminding me of this body. My body. A body I had nearly forgotten inside. A body I had taken for granted in the routines of the day. Ain't shit to do inside but work on your body. But you work on it so hard you forget you got it. And the juice makes it hard to feel anything when you're not lifting weights. Now I can feel every muscle tremble as I inhale. My chest expanding, the muscles thinning until they threaten to vanish. Then exhale. My muscles contracting into hard, solid bricks. The cold passes over me like a cloud of dust, barely settling on me. I walk around in my old clothes. So old they barely fit, stretched tight across my widening arms. I walk around my old stomping grounds and I know no fear. At least none on this first day out. People clear a path for me on the streets. I look everyone of them in the eye as I pass. Women checking me out, in site of themselves. Fucking patos checking me out. Even my homeboys.
-- Damn, Monster, you look fucking good. What they mean: You got what everyone wants. At this level of digital perfection there's no such thing as straight or gay. It's all good. You know what I'm saying?
Let me put it this way: I don't owe Uncle Ong shit.
chua is now known as don monster.
DIALOGUE [don monster]: Your skin gets thicker,
your hands coarser.
Your mind sharper.
It has a presence. A life.
reminding me of this body.
Now I can feel every muscle tremble as I inhale.
Damn, Monster, you look fucking good.
You got what everyone wants.
It's all good.
You know what I'm saying?
Let me put it this way--