NOVEMBER 15, 1934
I’M WRITING THIS ON a stack of damp cocktail napkins because my regular journal seems to have taken a walk. My legless partner, the severed head, seems to have no trouble getting up and taking walks when it suits him. So, I figure no reason my journal should be any different.
Note to self: paste these napkins in with the rest of your notes. Don’t forget.
Anyway, I don’t know what’s what with my notebook. Normally it’s right here in my pocket, but instead, all I’ve got is a handful of my own peter. At least my boomstick’s still here. I can live with my notes being incommunicado for a couple of hours, but I sure as shootin’ wouldn’t be alive if anyone started shootin’ and I couldn’t squirt iron back at ‘em.
Well, not alive. I’m not alive. Haven’t been for...oh, over two
