Squeeze Me (Skink #8)

by Carl Hiaasen

He was lanky, silver-haired, seasonally Catholic and steeply neo-conservative. It was Kiki Pew’s commiserative coddling that got him through the Obama years, though at times she feared that her excitable spouse might physically succumb from the day-to-day stress of having a black man in the Oval Office.

She awoke with renewed certainty that Carl Jung was full of shit. Dreams meant nothing—nonsense farted by a restless subconscious.

In a place like South Florida, such heart-bound faith in the justice system could best be described as quaint.

“Don’t you get it? It doesn’t fucking matter whether he’s right or not. That’s the scary part.”

Crosby was sickened by the cynical motives of the President’s conspiracy theory, and also by the damage caused. Diego Beltrán had been indicted, tried and convicted in a breezy golf-course rant.

“Their mom thought they were useless.” “Yes, and they’ll fit in beautifully at this event.”