Chapter Eleven
“OH, POWERS from Hell, grant me Nero’s wish, that all women have but one head and that head belongs to the screw who tyrannizes me: then grant me the pleasure of chopping it off!”
Bastille, Paris, 1700,s, DeSade wrote that, in his own blood. It seems reasonable to me.
I’m in a head chopping off kind of mood.
Once I was out of The Tombs, Garcia cornered me. I could see stark concern on his brown, Pudge Rodriguez of a face. He knows me, and he also knows I sometimes can nudge my toes over the Blue Line. Well, sometimes way over that line.
It sorta went like this.
Come on Jane, you know something.
Naw Vic, it’s just the kid upset me.
I know you Jane, let me and the boys help.
Naw Lou, it’s all good.
Don’t f**k up Jane.
Blah, blah, blah, and blah, blah, blah, back and
