The sickly sweet smell of blood fills the dimly lit bathroom where John Ulloa sits dazed on a closed toilet. The silky red fluid gushes from a gash in his forehead, creating a stream that flows over his cheekbone, past his mouth, and drips like a leaky faucet from his chin. It has already dried onto John's short, spiked black hair and his ears. His wife-beater shirt and shorts are soaked in it. The 16-year-old boy, who is short, thin, and naturally muscular, struggles to keep his eyes open as his older brother, David, silently limps over with a brown bottle of peroxide. David takes off the cap and, without a word, pours the liquid over the straight, surgical-looking three-inch slit at the top of John's forehead, just below the hairline. As the peroxide does its job, John's legs shake in pain. "I'm dizzy," mutters John, who goes by the name Kid Suicide when he performs. "But I don't think I want to go... More >>>
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John's backyard odyssey from the ground to the toilet to the ambulance.