Comments get comments. Homo sapiens have always had a backdoor out. Watch where you sit in restaurants. I’m chewing on ice and cracking my teeth. Monica tells me it’s bad to do that. “Your teeth will eat you.”

“I want you to eat me, not my teeth.”

“Everything is sex with you.”

There was a long silence between us that lasted a good six months.

It was no one’s fault.

Well, maybe a little. Perhaps all of it was Monica’s fault. Monica must be stopped. She owns a whorehouse. In Bolivia.

If you need to weigh the worth of comments, the best place you can go is to a whorehouse because the whores get together at the beginning of every shift. Tricks are always good for dirt.

Comments are that guy who mumbles ancient languages called dish. The world is still village politiks. I am that guy. Over the River and Through the Trees, Papa’s suicidal dreams and schemes.

“Do you remember me.”

She was a red head, and I did not remember her because I had never met her. Key West was the long knives. The bluefin in the Gulf of Florida slapped, smack with them just below the river of Margarita cunt. It looked like it was beginning to come off. Rose petals and razor blades I am so far up your future’s asshole, my elbow came alive. The boys were the ones who taught me how to walk in the dark. The boys were the ones who taught me the value of intransigence like you are looking at the ass on the bike in front of you, you go bump in the night. Monica’s helmet kinda hid her mohawk.