日韩欧美亚洲范冰冰与中字

It was snowing at that time, Howard Jones recalled. Yes, it was winter and the start of a new decade. January 6, 1970.

After getting his money forcibly taken away from him, Howard Jones was bleeding and laying in the snow. No one paid attention to him. His windpipe was crushed and he could only rasp while trying to ask for help in the middle of Times Square.

"Please….. Can someone…. tell me where….. Arts Academy….."

The people looked at him as if he was something disgusting. Those who did wore a look of sympathy on their face probably didn\'t help out in the fear that he was one of those young pranksters that became rampant.

After all, this was during the verge of the countercultural period. The youth were revolting with all these hippie vans and their heavy metal that featured the face of the Devil himself. The older generations were starting to become afraid by the changes that they were bringing to their once puritan society.

It was common at that time to have a bunch of conservatives holding placards and religious fanatics protesting against \'sheep going astray\'.

"The Day of Judgement is upon us! Hedonism has invaded our children\'s minds and turned our modern world into the new Sodom and Gomorrah! We must not let the sheep of the Lord continue to go astray!"

They continue to yell this babble all night among the crowd. Especially in places that were notoriously full of these rebellious teens like the mall, the cinemas, and god forbid— parks where they claim that the \'forbidden fruit\' gets exchanged frequently.

This \'Forbidden Fruit\' often refer to drugs, alcohol, and premarital sex.

The teenage punks and metalheads just leaned against the park\'s fences while smoking their cigarettes and whispering to each other, making fun of the old people. Most of which were old white men with neckbeards.

\'It\'s no different from back home\', Howard thought. \'Except that the "youngins" back home were forced to actually listen and the geezers can babble all they like without the chance of the police stopping them\'.

But tonight was not a lucky night for the teens. For some reason, there were no cops that night to push back these protesters and make them go home to change their adult diapers.

And so….

These old people started throwing rocks.

Howard was already laying face first and was not affected much by the throws. But there\'s still the danger of people stepping on him if there\'s ever a stampede.

The youth stopped smoking and bolted out of there. Even the toughest ones had to, as they don\'t only take rocks to scare them off but also guns. The religious fanatics were prepared this time, and seemed to be ready to start shooting without the cops around.

But one of them did not run away. He didn\'t even move from where he was sitting, leaning at the gates of the park with his legs crossed.

He was wearing all black, and his eyes were closed. It was almost as if he was meditating, which was common to see with the beatniks and the bohemians. But he looked more like a punk or a biker boy, though.

The snow continued to wall over his head, and yet he exuded nothing but extreme calmness amidst all of it.

"Repent, sinful child!" A potbellied geezer exclaimed. "Repent!"

The man simply opened his eyes ever so slowly at this.

He had possibly the reddest hazel eyes that Howard had ever seen. With proper lighting, it even looked burgundy or maroon.

"What should I repent for?" He asked in that voice.

His voice was too smooth and dark for his face. His face had a more cherubic appearance, a sort of ethereal Grecian look like that of the statues of Apollo or Achilles. It almost had perfect symmetry and yet was memorable enough compared to all the others who had a typical \'handsome\' face.

Perhaps it was his aura itself that sets him apart. Perhaps it was something else, something deeper.

But Howard knew that upon seeing him, his face would be engraved in his brain forever. Just like the first time he saw the Mona Lisa or the statue of David from a torn-up picture book donated to his little country school. Howard would find himself obsessing over human features that drew him in, just like how he would often portray women in his artworks looking like his wife.

In this man\'s case, Howard was satisfied admiring his image as a memory he keeps to himself. It was like a priceless painting, the type you wouldn\'t want to share with just about anyone.

While lost in the man\'s aesthetic beauty, the gramps and grannies continued to scream. "The sins of your generation! All of you who make women wear pants and promote them in companies and institutions! All of you who let sexual deviancy get in the way of a pure and holy matrimony! You lot who worships Satan and spits on the face of God! Repent, before the world comes to ruins!"

The man just chuckled, and stood up.

"Is that so? Those are my sins, huh... Then does changing me into the side of \'good\' meant cleansing the sins of the world itself? I don\'t see the point."

The man brushed off the snow from his jacket. "As long as humanity lives, we will kill each other for survival. It is the rule of nature itself, the science of survival—"

"YES! It is that science that corrupted your minds! Thinking that machines and television can fill the void in your Godless lives! Filling your minds with pornography! Faggots and queers openly singing and acting on stage!"

The man just raised an eyebrow. "Seriously? Those are the greatest sins of mankind? Gay singers and actors…. Women\'s rights…. Sexual liberation….. Those are what troubles you?"

He laughed heartily. "What about children and innocents dying in constant warfare, r*pists destroying the honor of men and women alike, poverty and the destruction of this planet itself…. Shouldn\'t you be worrying about these things instead?"

He smiled, then started taking off his shirt. "But alright. If wearing something like this would make your brains implode, then go see the face of the Devil himself!"

His torso revealed a tattoo over his chest, where the heart should be. It was a symbol written in very complicated calligraphy. Howard thought it looked a bit Asian, though he can\'t tell from where exactly and what it means.

Howard doesn\'t know what infuriated the oldies. Was it his words? Was it his tattoo? Either way, they started throwing rocks at him.

"The Devil makes its mark on this boy! He\'s its servant!"

"Begone, demon!"

The man just raised his arms wide, prepared to take it all on. Even when they pointed their guns, there was just an exhilarated gleam in his eyes. It was like….

He was waiting for this moment, for someone to just end his life. Because he couldn\'t do it himself.

Howard didn\'t know what came over him. He was already so weak, and yet….

He still stood up, and grabbed the gun itself. Throwing it across the snow.

"Enough! You are the ones that are from the Devil! If you wanted to throw stones at him, you better be a saint first! Whatever god you keep yelling about won\'t stand for this at all or else he\'s just as evil as the lot of you!!"

This stopped the mob entirely. Then….

They turned their attention to him, aiming their stones at this artist that\'s already bleeding to death.

But Howard has already grabbed this man\'s hand, and started running. He won\'t let these idiots hurt him, and most importantly....

He won\'t let this man purposefully get himself killed.