MicroHorror

First they fed him laxatives, and rubbed him in his own filth.

Next they clothed him in a well-worn trench coat, and poured liquor down his throat.

Then they showed him a dry-erase board with several words scrawled on it: bad words, not nice.

“What is this?” he asked.

“Your palette,” the man said. “These words will be your working vocabulary from now on. You’re free to use them in any combination you wish–if you attempt to speak others, we will rephrase them for you through microscopic implants in the whiskey you drank. Think of them as your paints, and downtown as your canvas. Now go out in the world and create your masterpiece.”

Then they stopped at the corner and shoved him out, and the black van sped away.