Right at the End of the Party.

I looked up to the grim hollow light that topped the hill: the last shot of cannon and a black throat of silence. Around me were corpses, 2,000 head, just tumbling along down the slope like balls of red ice marbling away. All dead, my friends rolled past. I threw down my pen knife and swore, never again. Never.

A dog showed up with a dumb lolling tongue, and it led me to Jesus who was astride a gay mare. I fell to the ground and slaughtered the thing to a spigot of blood. The birthday party had ended.