Chapter Eighteen
Me Jane, you, whatever, for sure not f*****g Tarzan.
I’ve been feeling bent cold lately, like a rolled iron loop de loop b***h. You know, like a Coney Island roller coaster, curved in a leap of death, near the pier pilings. There rotting, wasted away from the salt tear drops of an unrelenting army of a sea’s vengeance, crewed of ocean soldiers. No memory, no pity, corroding soul killers as old as ancient time.
I’m a lost smart Alec cunt, lately that is. I’m feeling leaderless, no general to guide me. I’m usually very f****d up, in a good way, but not now.
It feels bad this time and that’s about it.
I’ve been feeling like that ever since I seen the kid Missy Smith looking like 98 pounds of dead, grey zinc, over there at the Tombs, at N. Vegas Metro.
Normally I dig it
