Warhol's Prophecy
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Bill Hicks.
From the heart.
Genius never dies.
Everyone will be famous for fifteen minutes
Andy Warhol
10030 CIELO DRIVE, LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA
There was blood everywhere.
Deep red pools of it. Bright splashes. Droplets here and there.
The room, the house, was filled with that vile, coppery odour.
The whole place smelled of death.
And she knew she was next.
These people, whoever or whatever they were, had come into her house with the express purpose of murdering them: herself and her guests.
They had entered the house with ease.
Four women, one man.
And within they had found two men and two women.
The three others were dead now.
She alone remained alive. But only until they decided otherwise.
The intruders had brought pain and death with them.
Knives . . . guns . . . ropes.
Death.
She was eight-and-a-half-months pregnant. She didn’t want to die. All she wanted to do was have her baby: her perfect, unborn child. She pleaded with them to let her live. Pleaded with the women in particular. Trying to appeal to some semblance of maternal feeling that might be hidden beneath their blood-drenched clothes and drug-blanked expressions.