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to the tune of the vaudeville song the old lawyer in The Aristocats warbled while lurching around Madame Bonfamille’s parlor. You’ll die of TOOTH DECAY! You’ll DIE of TOOTH decay! You’ll die of toooooth decay You’ll Die Of Tooth De Cay
They looked like some lost character from a Donna Tartt novel.
“At least I’m not a fucking Nazi.”
as they drove through this bizarre little SkyMall dictatorship.
Fran imagined the beams of that old castle coming down on her, crushing her body like Mrs. Danvers in Rebecca because she wouldn’t let go of a dream of a woman who couldn’t be loved, or touched, or known.
“Our Boston friend,” they said, “also tells us the reason Pierce was sent to Seabrook is that Teach considers her both degenerate—a chaser—and an efficient killer driven by self-loathing to show she’s twice as brutal as her sisters. She’s here to clean house and prove herself. Kill everything between us and the TERFs up in Bath.”
One of the others had a little charm bracelet of finger bones and teeth she must have cut off dead men.
And before her there’d been her selfish faggot brother, that disgusting thing wriggling nylons up its hairy legs, melting their parents’ brains with his lies about how trapped he felt, how wrong his body was, bankrupting them for surgeries to pinch and squeeze and mold his flesh into grotesque new contortions like something out of a dirty horror movie. Her mother’s voice delivering the words that had crushed her utterly, finally, irrevocably. My beautiful daughters.
He gripped Fran’s hand where it stuck out from beneath the bloody sheet someone had used to cover her. Are you leaving? she’d asked, standing there in her nightgown in Indi’s backyard. He closed his eyes, crying now in silent, gulping sobs. I don’t want you to.
