A menace beats off them that you can feel, dark glaring faces, sticks brandished, robes waving and feet churning up the dust in clouds before them, the rhythmic chanting sounding like a barbaric war-song--and you fight down the panic and turn to look at the khaki line strung out on either side of you, the young faces set under the slanted bonnets, the rifles at their sides, standing at ease--waiting for you.

So, this is my induction: A guy turns punk, skates, takes acid, beats off, and embraces disaster literature.