blubbering. In the morning she burns the shoe boxes and computer containing her seven unpublishable novels, and gets a new tattoo in preparation for her blind date with Arnold Patterson, pizza driver. Is she at rock bottom yet?
The dame had finally come unhinged. Papers were strewn everywhere. The room smelled like bathtub gin, smoke, and failure. Only the smoke was new.
Lemme start by saying I've killed before. Not proud of it, but it keeps the kibble in my bowl. I once shot a man just fifteen feet from his old lady. Don't get me wrong; he'd been scamming prose-pushers for fourteen years. He had it coming to him. His old lady, though, she had nothing to do with it. I let myself feel sorry for her. She cried the carpet wet enough to drown a fish.
That woman had nothing on my dame.
I've never been good at dealing with nothing on two legs, so I decided I'd grab myself a London Dry and get out of her way. If I stayed, she'd throw something, and I'd be stuck cleaning up the mess. Then I saw it: her arm'd been inked. “Arnold Patterson,” written in a blood-red heart. My own heart just about stopped. They say the boy delivers for Paccinis, but my mole tells me what's in those boxes don't taste good with parmesan.
The name's Yap. I wear a tam.