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A discussion produced the unanimous sentiment that court trials in such brutal cases were a waste of public tax dollars, and that the culprit should be dragged by his hairy nut sack straight from the booking desk to the death chamber.
Diego was confident he’d be freed from jail the next morning and taken back to the immigration detention center, where he would join the others and resume work
on his asylum application. In a place like South Florida, such heart-bound faith in the justice system could best be described as quaint.
She would need to perch on top, obviously, because the missionary position would result in crushed organs and suffocation.
Maintaining her balance in the absence of a saddling device would require the skills of an aerialist. Uric wondered if the Secret Service supplied a spotter—possibly the tall dark-skinned agent who was leading the First Lady’s entourage into the mansion.
consultation with the surgeon, who—despite speaking not a word of English and wearing a black beret during the meeting—seemed otherwise professional and reassuring.
gem. They tell me the island people call it a conch pearl.” The President rhymed conch with “haunch.”
“It’s ‘conk,’ ” Ryskamp said under his breath, but no harm done—the “island people” would get a laugh out of it.
“This is a show of the shit variety,” one remarked.
Well,
“You think he could be right about this Diego kid being involved in the old woman’s death?”
Ryskamp looked up with a rueful smile. “Don’t you get it? It doesn’t fucking matter whether he’s right or not. That’s the scary part.”
Crosby was caught off guard by her directness. Also, those eyes. He heard himself ask, “All right. What’s this about?”
“Fan-fucking-tastic!”
He was grinning like a chimp that picked a padlock at a banana warehouse.
Then he heard the door close behind him.
bowl of sketchy guacamole.
Sweet, Uric said to himself. Least I won’t have to hitchhike home. Which was the second-to-last thought to enter his mind. The last was: Aw fuck.
“That’s what they told me, too, but I’m still here. Me and
the llama fucker.
criteria but—in the words of Emily Dickinson, Selena Gomez and
Darius, the guy who sprayed her apartment for roaches—the heart wants what it wants.
Spalding piped up: “He’s got some blood-curdling tales. Tell her what you found that one time in the canopy chamber.’’
“No, do not tell me—” Angie tried waving him off, too late. “An extra-large Depends,” Christian reported mirthlessly, “burnt to a crisp.”
“Honestly, Paul, that patronizing tone does not make me want to fuck your brains out.” The agent gave a startled blink. “Was there even a chance of that happening?” “I was beginning to like you.” “Well, shit.”
On the night of March 13th, chilly and moonlit, an itinerant transmission mechanic named Ajax “Hammerhead” Huppler disappeared from his boat while casting for snook along the Intracoastal Waterway, within sight of Casa Bellicosa.
“It’s Ahmet.” He was fully awake now. “Come on, man. A little respect.”
???
“Ajax Huppler.
were
An autopsy confirmed that the damage to Huppler’s body had been caused post-mortem by the speeding Jet Skis.
Police Chief Jerry Crosby was glad to close the file, and happier still that the media missed the story.
what about. manslaughter charge?
He was dressed and gone from
her apartment in three minutes and twenty seconds, tying the record set by a pharmaceuticals rep that Angie had Tazed on the thigh after he’d said she should consider a boob job and offered to line her up with a cosmetic surgeon who also happened to be his uncle.
was
The country we both fought for is getting ass-raped by a paranoid, draft-dodging, whore-hopping—”
“Put an end to this nonsense, Clint. Please.” “It’s my last motherfucking rodeo, I promise.”
“It’s time for your stepmother to meet my friend.”
The theme of this year’s Commander’s Ball was “Big Unimpeachable You,” based on an original ditty commissioned by Fay Alex Riptoad and the other
The Knob
swollen and buttered with aloe, his skin as raw as carpaccio. Mastodon had scheduled a tanning session for mid-afternoon, and now there was no one to pre-test the bed.
He felt sure his eyes were shut most of that time, yet it seemed like the sun lamps had flickered at some point.
foreshadowing
Jim Tile, and for most of his life he’d been a road trooper with the Florida Highway Patrol. Now
“Skink is what they call him.”
You’re talking about Tyree? The missing governor.” “Yes, ma’am.” “So he’s not dead, like they say.”
Clinton Tyree fled the governor’s mansion in a fever of despair, later re-launching
“Does the hammock have a name?” “Whereabouts Unknown is what he calls it.”
Angie had one more question: “Is your friend alone on that island?” “If he was,” said Jim Tile, “you and me wouldn’t be having this conversation.” —
They disrobed, oiled each other up,
“I was careful not to hurt the pussy, or the cat.” “Are you trying to get arrested again? You miss
“Who did it?” Angie asked. “Ayran Brotherhood.” “How many?”
