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She breathed deeply of the scent of decaying fiction, disintegrating history, and forgotten verse, and she observed for the first time that a room full of books smelled like dessert: a sweet snack made of figs, vanilla, glue, and cleverness.
“Hey, there, God,” Bing said. “It’s Bing, that old dumb thing.
His face was tipped back and his mouth was open when something hot hit his cheek, and he tasted something salty and bitter on his lips. He flinched; it was like someone had cum on him. He swiped at his mouth and looked at his fingers, now coated with a whitish green crud, a sloppy liquid mash. It took a moment to identify it as pigeon shit. Bing groaned: once, then again. His mouth was full of the salt-crème taste of bird shit. The stuff cupped in his palm looked like diseased phlegm.
He glanced down and discovered he had planted his hand on a soiled condom crawling with ants.
Hicks began to cry. He farted: a wet, whistling blat. He had never felt so miserable.
A woman could get any tattoo she liked, but they all said the same thing. They were a sign reading AVAILABLE FOR RENT.
The blood of a redheaded woman is three degrees cooler than the blood of a normal woman. This has been established by medical studies.”
Although a lot of cowboys rode ATVs and listened to Eminem these days.
“They’re horcruxes,” Vic said.
