He was a five-euro millionaire.
“I thank you, the David Bowie T-shirt of my dead daughter thanks you, the third draft of my crappy so-called next novel says a deep and sincerely felt gracias, the bald head of my estranged wife thanks you and, by the way,” he said, “did I ever tell you that my wife supports us? It’s her house, you know, just by way of if you run into anybody who’s asking.”
Ms. Heels in her red blazer was unscrewing the heel of her red shoe, replacing a battery in it.
Johnny saw the words come out of his mouth. “Vivi yeah. She was inhaling the detritus of napalm, got some good pics is the point. Point being her work pays down the mortgage. So, I am here to ask you: Why oh why do they come only for my autograph, when my Vivienne is the one of great renown in the house? T
