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He tried to open his eyes. Unfortunately, he hadn’t washed his face before collapsing into a bitter heap of despair, and the maquillage from last night’s gig at some top-shelf forty-something’s birthday to-do had solidified between his eyelashes into a cement composed entirely of shame and fuchsia glitter.
"Space Opera" Cat Valente to kwintesencja brokatu. Uwielbiam to, ze jej podejscie do Eurowizji jest dokladnie takie jak moje :D
The world had gotten gritty enough. The only thing left to do in all that dirt was to shine.
BROKAAAAAAAAAAAAT
If he lost everything else, pride, priapism, and producer credit, Decibel Jones would never, never give up his swagger.
“This is some hard-core, triple-X, keep-it-in-the-back-room-under-a-curtain, Alice in Wonderland action is what this is,” Decibel said with total delight.
“It’s always all about you, somehow. Even when you’re apologizing. It’s kind of impressive.” “I’m trying.”
Oort fixed the alien paper clip with a glare of bottomless black nihilism. “Clippy,” he growled with true menace, “is a cunt.”
Decibel turned on a tuppence, from near-death experience to near-porn experience in one breath.
How else are you supposed to deal with people who like terrible things? Hit them with a shovel till they stop, that’s how.
