Noir

by Christopher Moore

I put in an hour on a heavy bag every day—a habit I picked up due to my inability to know when to keep my trap shut,

My dear ma was an English teacher, and from the time I squeaked out my first word she steeped me deeply in metaphor, simile, symbolism, alcoholism, and all the various iambs of the poetic tradition,

the fog off the bay was streaming between the buildings like a scarf through a stripper’s legs, leaving everything damp and smelling of sailors’ broken dreams.

“My ma had a record of that Moron Tallywacker Choir singin’ Christmas music. Sounded like someone hurtin’ a dog. I broke it and melted it on the radiator.”

god, everything that kid said was funny