I floor the gas pedal. The Sonoramic Commando V-8 growls like an angry tiger and leapfrogs us ahead of the traffic.
The difficulty with humorists is that they will mix what they believe with what they don’t—whichever seems likelier to win an effect.
Dabbling in the sandbox gives Rabbit a small headache. Over at the pavilion the rubber thump of Roofball and the click of checkers call to his memory, and the forgotten smell of that narrow plastic...
Momentarily drained of lust, he stares at the remembered contortions to which it has driven him. His life seems a sequence of grotesque poses assumed to no purpose, a magic dance empty of belief. There...
The Chinese food arrives. Delicious saliva fills his mouth. He really hasn’t had any since Texas. He loves this food that contains no disgusting proofs of slain animals, a bloody slab of cow haunch, a...
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