A quality of heaviness, the value or importance attached. A long sloping cement ditch running behind a row of old brick amblers, partially canopied with overgrowth and remains of old fencing. The houses were still sturdy, not quite neglected, but grade electricians and algebra teachers, military pensions and Social Security, no skylights or island kitchens, yellowed walls, and the yellowed pride of furniture that decades ago felt like a telescopic glimpse at the horizon of success. Artifacts of improvement, languishing and phrase. Two school age boys, book bags and lunchboxes, walking down the old ditch, walking the way children walk, leaping over the weeds and sludge, breaking through the concrete, propelling themselves up and down the incline, almost ticking in their repetition. The vulgarized lapse and howls of unchaperoned liberation, the violence of pubescence clawing at naivety, his body laid putra just 20ft ahead, Baron sprawled bloodless, gaping punctures that broke, bones going in, jagged lacerations with protruding canary colored pockets of fat spilling out dried, clawed, the orange brown smear of his voided digestion covering his thighs. The cavernous depression of red and darkness bored out from between the frame of his crooked jaw and thinning hairline, scooping away his identity. A photographic stillness, if not for the wiggling animation of larvae obiposited in his wounds. Capitalizing from his rot, the boys approached with intent, picking up speed into almost a skip. They'd been here before. The previous day they had stumbled on his dreadful camp, discarded their necks to sunbleached bottles and cans in the cracked canal. After an initial bout of terror and sickness, their curiosity and a beyond their years understanding of rarity took grasp of their behavior. Unforensic prodding, sticks and branches evolving into hesitant fingertips, lifting and spreading the scored flesh. Groundless speculation, talk of deformed monsters stalking in shadows, a mangy like anthropic menace. Impressions and reenactments of lumbering creatures without stretched arms and stiff knees. Pupils rolled back beyond visibility, a pact of silence consisting of spit covered palms was instituted, and the boys decided to return the following day to continue their investigation, kicking away dust and cigarette butts. One boy knelt down beside the cadaver, flipping the backpack slung over his shoulder into his lap, cautiously panning his surroundings before fixing eyes with the other boy, who began to crack a shakingly anxious yet impatiently errant smile. Unzipping the blue canvas book bag, the boy reached in and retrieved the brown plastic 16 ounce bottle of peroxide, the remedy for the scraped shins and elbows of summertime fence jumping, the marvel of its curious reaction. His friend inched forward, hovering over the corpse. The boy tossed his bag behind him and stood up, nodding to his companion as he regained his footing and began to twist the white cap from the bottle. A slow tilt resulting in a sprinkle of drops quickly became injudicious, pouring as the chemical cascaded from the mouth of the bottle, splattering and pooling in the peeled in potholed cavity, festering below them. An acid rain, frosting white waves glug, glugged and fizzed out of the craters and gashes, rupturing hissing fountains that through child's eyes appeared as geysers, the morbid scientists recoiling and approaching with equal excitement. The morbid scientists and their subject with his excavated, gouged out face, his fractured, empty skull filled up like a wash basin with the effervescent soup, the snakeish whistle of oxidating bubbles evacuating and reproducing across the length of the torso, cocooning his disease. Whatever atrocity and horror had been inflicted on him, his torture and evisceration, the gurgling last seconds of solitude and hopelessness on his descent into obsolescence, the frantic mistake or the calculated revenge that brought about his circumstance, it all was inconsequential. He was clean now, disinfected and clean