The Subs Club (The Subs Club, #1)

by J.A. Rock

he looked like a genetic hybrid of Teddy Roosevelt and that guy who cut his arm off when it got trapped by that boulder.

facial hair is stupid, but I still want your penis inside me.

Pornstache vanished into the crowd without so much as burying his face in my ass and giving me mustache burns on my taint. Life was cruel.

“I dislike small talk.”

“Take me home, sweetheart. I always wanted to get it from the Brawny paper towel guy.”

Do you ever think about kale chips or anything?” “Whatever kale chips are, I cannot imagine they would improve my life.”

“Small talk is the last refuge of the insecure.”

Name your child what you intend to call him, or do not become a parent.”

“So you hate nicknames. And small talk. And the death of the American man. What do you like?” He breathed in deeply and closed his eyes for a second. “Woodworking.” “Is that all?” “No. Bacon.” “And . . .?” “Silence.”

“I also enjoy Olympic track and field events, and competently distilled whiskey.”

“Son, a modern-day twenty-six-year-old is the equivalent of a 1940s twelve-year-old.” “What does that mean?” “You’re still a child.”

“He’s, like, some cliché manly man from the early twentieth century. Eats nothing but meat, framed a piece of hide he tanned himself. Makes all his own paddles. Drinks whiskey straight. Has that mustache.”

Pornstache and Little d 4evs.