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Suzi looked insulted. “Hey, I don’t hurt him. I’ve never hurt him. Soon as he’s out of breath, we stop.”
Then there was the damn iguana egg that he was attempting to hatch in his empty eye socket. One of the first things he’d done was flip up the patch
The Cornbright brothers had become infuriated when they learned that their club privileges had terminated with the recent death of their mother,
The tree island—abandoned. What the fuck?
a woman named Suzanne Carhart Brownstein off the property through a maze of private hallways. Ms. Brownstein, an adult entertainer whose stage name was Suzi Spooner, had been fucking the President cross-eyed inside his private suite when the First Lady arrived to show him the gown she’d chosen for the Commander’s Ball. The President himself had requested the fashion preview but soon thereafter lost track of time,
enduring a chorus of bovine rutting.
The title of the book was The Zürau Aphorisms, written by somebody named
Kafka.
The mediation by the serpent was necessary: Evil can seduce man, but cannot become man.
“You chop a line and snort it like coke?” he asked. “Preferably off some angel’s ass,” Cobo said.
“You think these rich proper white folks gonna make a scene and turn away a fine-looking black man in a tuxedo, the only black man in this whole damn zip code? Especially when he’s old and a little confused, and then he drops a few
can’t think of a more beautiful night in a more beautiful place to celebrate the beautiful achievements of my administration. Pause for applause.” The last sentence wasn’t meant to be read aloud, but Mastodon’s view of the teleprompter cues was narrowed by the tribal mask’s slit-like eye holes.
Kikey Pew”—this time the mispronunciation drew uneasy murmurs—“and
Pause for applause!” The crowd clapped with a vigor that sounded compulsory.
one of the most smartest, articulatest and hottest women in the whole world, my tremendous wife—”
“Down, big boy,” she teased.
“I’m jacked up on narwhal,” he said.
As Mockingbird took her seat at the table, her husband went to the men’s room to snort the last of Stanleigh Cobo’s secret dick powder. The first bump had failed its hydraulic mission and, according to Suzi Spooner, smelled like jock-itch talc.
Diego Beltrán had listened to the President’s words, swallowed six hundred milligrams of Ambien, and passed out lifeless on the floor. The news was relayed first to Police Chief Jerry Crosby, who chose to share it selectively.
“She was checking my BMI. That’s all.”
Spalding asked if she had Hulu. “Yeah, but no porn. In your honor I turned on the parental controls.” “Rude,” he muttered.
“The White House sent a picture of him and Lord Bumblefuck at the poser ball.” She laughed and said, “Yeah, I saw.” Jim Tile had texted a screenshot of the President’s inscription: To my old pal Morgan Freeman—you’ve come a long way since driving Miss Debby!
upset to hear that her “companionship contract” with Mastodon didn’t expire for another three years. Millions of dollars were at stake, Mockingbird had explained, not to mention the hefty performance bonuses. Every time she touched Mastodon’s right hand in a public setting, ten thousand dollars was deposited in her brokerage account at Morgan Stanley; a full five-finger entwinement was worth twenty grand. And to appear beside him at a formal function: forty thousand for the first sixty minutes, fifty-five for every hour after that.
Up close, the white goggle marks around his eyes dramatized the limitations of the bronzing process.
“They’ve got these amazing blue pills, hon. I can still do it all night long.” “No offense,” Angie said, “but I’d rather put my head in a wood chipper.” The ex-president, notoriously impatient, had no backup lines prepared. “I can’t believe this. Your answer is no?”
“Actually, my answer is ‘go fuck yourself,’ sir.”
