Someone touches his shoulder. Ali is looking into the dim light of early dawn.
……… “What is it?”
……… “Patrol, I think”
……… We are out of the reservation area and the penalty for being caught here without authorization is the white-hot jockstrap. We will not be taken alive. We have cyanide shoes, a cushion of compressed gas in a double soul under our feet. A certain sequence of toe movements and we settle down in a woosh of cyanide as the Green Guards clutch their blue throats and we streak out of our bodies across the sky. We also have rocket-fuel flamethrowers, very effective at close range.
……… This is not a patrol. It is a gang of naked boys covered with erogenous sores. As they walk they giggle and stroke and scratch each other. From time to time they fuck each other in Hula-Hoops to idiot mambo.
……… “Just leper kids,” Ali grunts. “Let’s make some java.”
……… We drink it black in tin cups and wash down K rations.

— William S. Burroughs, Cities of the Red Night