I woke up that morning on the living room floor. In front of my face was a large black spot, the size of a softball, just hovering there. It looked like it was made of shadows, like when you rub your eyes too hard. I rubbed my eyes and blinked a few times, but it was still there. The cheap beer and reefer have finally taken their toll, I thought to myself. What kind of damage have I done to my brain? My buddy's cat appeared on the scene and began batting this black orb with his kitty paws. Like a flash, the hallucination darted down the hallway, chased closely by the cat. Well, that's something, I think to myself.

The apartment I shared with my friend and his brother was nothing more than the second floor of a house. The last tenants were a band that made it big and moved out. You know the song about peaches? We still got their junk mail. The bottom floor was occupied by a man and woman who played in a punk band, and their toddler daughter. The bitch was always screaming like hell, I guess it kept her voice in shape, but I felt sorry for her boyfriend.

I heard her screaming that morning and thought nothing of it. When she ran upstairs to our place that morning, I laid there casually while my bro Keno answered the door.

She frantically told us that a strange man had just walked in her house while she was showering and wouldn't leave. He was playing with the daughter in her room. "Yo! Get your long haired Mexican ass up! We gotta situation here!" Was the rallying cry to our sleeping brother.

We ran down the rickety stairs on the side of the house and see a big white guy walking down Greenwood avenue, holding the little girl's hand. We run and stop them. "You better let go of that little girl and talk to us," said Keno.

The guy looked like a construction worker, worn jeans, and a red flannel shirt tucked in, wearing weathered work boots with the steel showing through the toe. Besides that, he seemed unremarkable. Not even a hint of crazy in his eyes. "I'm Michael. The angel of love. I come from love," he says. The screaming lady grabbed her daughter and disappeared.

"What the fuck are you doing? Grabbing that LITTLE GIRL?" but before Keno can say more, the crazy Mexican blasted this dude, solid right to the chin. He wasn't even fazed. "I come from love. Won't you love me?"

Keno smashes in his nose, and the guy is unmovable, bleeding, but still standing there, with his arms outstretched. "Love me," is all he said. My two friends put the hurting on this guy, he's getting kicked in his face after he goes down. "I come from love," he keeps repeating. All this is happening on a major city street at 9:00 a.m.

A carload of white guys stopped and got out to help the guy getting the beat down.

I'm still a teenager, and have never seen this level of insanity in another human. It's so disturbing to me, that I'm questioning my own sanity. My only part in all this was merely to be the big white guy who keeps the other white guys out of it. I get between them and the action, and tell them "Mind your own business. This guy ain't no victim."

These white knights decide that maybe they didn't want to be late for work, after all, and get back in their car.

Before long, Seattle's finest arrive on scene and want to know what's what. They get the story, and take Michael away in cuffs. "He'll probably be out by four this afternoon," they tell us. Something about that day still seems unreal to me, like it was a dream. The veil of sanity was lifted for one brief moment, giving me a glimpse into the insanity that's just underneath the surface of some, fueling my suspicion of others forever.