Portrait Of The Psychopath As A Young Woman Part 26

"Is it a good poem? Do you like it?"

"Yep."

Her words listed. She felt slipping into sleep. "What's it called?"

His fingers rubbing her neck lulled her further, and so did his voice. "I can't tell you."

"Why?"

"It isn't finished yet."

Deeper, deeper, she slipped. "So? You can at least tell me the t.i.tle."

"It's creative bad luck," he espoused, "to reveal the t.i.tle of an unfinished work to the person it's written for."

Sleep beclouded her. Deeper, deeper. "What, Maxwell?"

"It's for you," he said.

For me? She was suddenly so relaxed, she couldn't speak. She was suddenly so relaxed, she couldn't speak.

"Go to sleep now," he said.

Chapter 23.

(I).

Everything's ready.

New ideas.

It makes her feel very creative, and very powerful.

She sees her mother standing behind her in the mirror.

Her mother smiles.

Her mother is so beautiful despite blackened eyes, broken teeth, bruises and cuts from Daddy.

Her mother's hands, elbows, and feet are swollen up like discolored balloons from the heroin needles. Daddy made her into an addict soon after they met, so he could control her. He never married her, he just used her to make money. Daddy had a lot of friends that liked to do awful things to prost.i.tutes. He used her mother like a tidbit.

It makes her so sad she begins to cry.

Don't cry, her mother says. her mother says.

They did awful things to her.

Daddy would beat her mother senseless, so his friends could f.u.c.k her while she was unconscious or in pain.

It was a game to Daddy, a kick. He served her mother like a bowl of pretzels at a card game. Quick thrills for his friends. Frequently, he served his daughter too...

Don't cry, her mother says again. her mother says again.

She can't help it.

She's crying now in front of the mirror, her tears making her mascara run.

Her mother's smiling.

She's beautiful in spite of all the pain she's felt.

All the horrible things men have done to her.

Don't cry.

She washes her face.

She reapplies her makeup.

She must be strong like her mother.

An auburn wig tonight.

Long like a mane of beautiful smoke.

A seethrough blacklace blouse.

A black, embroidered linen jacket.

Gray stonewashed Guess jeans.

What a beautiful daughter I have, her mother says. her mother says. You're so beautiful. You're so beautiful.

"I know," she says into the mirror.

And smiles.

(II).

Jams, Johnny Duff thought. He slipped Slayer's "A Season In The Abyss" into the Nak indash CD player and cranked up some watts. Yeah, Yeah, he thought. Music always got him in the mood. he thought. Music always got him in the mood.

He equated his car to himself. A Nissan 300ZX: fast, sleek, turbo-charged. Orange, like fire. He'd put on his phony plates tonight, so whatever barcooze he f.u.c.ked over wouldn't get a line on him. Women were paranoid these days. Roofies, GHB. He remembered some j.i.z.zbucket he'd picked up in Annapolis a few years ago, she'd actually written down his tag number before she'd gotten into the car. He wished it hadn't been before he'd gotten the Big H, so he could've given her a dose. Then that other time-Crystal City? he thought-he'd woken up in some cooze's bed at about four in the morning to see her going through his wallet with a penlight. She hadn't been robbing him, she was writing down his name and address off his driver's license! Johnny had a fake license now, which he always brought with him when he went out on the town. It had cost him a couple of hundred from some printing place he caught in an ad in he thought-he'd woken up in some cooze's bed at about four in the morning to see her going through his wallet with a penlight. She hadn't been robbing him, she was writing down his name and address off his driver's license! Johnny had a fake license now, which he always brought with him when he went out on the town. It had cost him a couple of hundred from some printing place he caught in an ad in Merc Merc magazine, but it was worth it. Looked just like the real thing, had his picture, height, weight, eye and hair color, but a phony name and address. He couldn't very well pull any good f.u.c.kovers with his real ID in his wallet, could he? magazine, but it was worth it. Looked just like the real thing, had his picture, height, weight, eye and hair color, but a phony name and address. He couldn't very well pull any good f.u.c.kovers with his real ID in his wallet, could he?

So tonight, Johnny Duff of Arlington, Virginia, was John Richards of Northeast Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C.

Johnny was 29. He was sharp, smooth talking. He pulled in a good 40 to 50 grand per, selling highend Nissans; he could talk the f.u.c.kers into anything, and he got his own car on the dealers.h.i.+p's tab. Salesman Of The Month seven months out of twelve in '96, he reminded himself. Forty to 50K was good money for a single guy, and Johnny couldn't imagine being anything but single. Marriage was for twits, he reasoned. They sap your cash, sap your social life, then divorce you and take half. f.u.c.k that. Besides, he couldn't pull f.u.c.kovers if he was. .h.i.tched.

Being single, with a cla.s.s set of wheels, a nice pad, and righteous bread in the pocket, was too much fun.

He always. .h.i.t bars far afield, maybe once every two or three months. He didn't want to be b.u.mping into any old stuff he'd done a job on. They all got it coming, the s.h.i.+ts, They all got it coming, the s.h.i.+ts, he reasoned. Johnny didn't consider a f.u.c.kover to be rape. he reasoned. Johnny didn't consider a f.u.c.kover to be rape. Can I help it they get wet just looking at me? Can I help it they get wet just looking at me? Bar girls were all the same-taking care of number one. When they saw a guy had looks, a slick ride, and cash, they turned into sharks. Bar girls were all the same-taking care of number one. When they saw a guy had looks, a slick ride, and cash, they turned into sharks. I'll show them a shark I'll show them a shark, he thought. It wasn't like he was putting a gun to their heads in an alley and making them bend over. They came on to him him, then Johnny finished what they started. He'd had a lot of good f.u.c.kovers in his time. Giving them a dose was the mainstay kick. He always insisted on using rubbers, to show them he was sensitive to the times; girls liked that. Johnny's herpes was almost always active; he used nonlubricated condoms so the lubricant wouldn't kill the virus. What he'd do, when they weren't looking, was he'd pop a herpes sore onto his finger before putting the rubber on, then he'd rub the discharge on the outside of the rubber, or he'd finger her s.n.a.t.c.h before sinking in. Give the b.i.t.c.hes a good dose, yeah boy! Give the b.i.t.c.hes a good dose, yeah boy! he thought. Something to remember their night with Johnny. By the time they realized they had the Big H, they'd probably been f.u.c.ked by another dozen guys. Johnny particularly liked to pull this move on chicks who were out cheating on their boyfriends or husbands. Two birds with one sore. he thought. Something to remember their night with Johnny. By the time they realized they had the Big H, they'd probably been f.u.c.ked by another dozen guys. Johnny particularly liked to pull this move on chicks who were out cheating on their boyfriends or husbands. Two birds with one sore.

f.u.c.kovers were part of what he was too, like the car, and his threads, and his lifestyle. It was dog eat dog: you either f.u.c.ked them over or they f.u.c.ked you over. No way Johnny Duff was going to wind up on the s.h.i.+tend of that that stick. stick.

These nights were important to him-they were a ritual. He liked to gear up. He drove around Georgetown awhile first, to eye s.n.a.t.c.h. Up and down M Street, the lookers were out. Johnny wished he could do all of them, give it to each and every one of them like they never had it before. f.u.c.k 'em 'til they bust f.u.c.k 'em 'til they bust, he dreamed, and turned off towards Was.h.i.+ngton Harbor. But Georgetown wasn't his style. It wasn't sleazy enough.

Gear up, he thought. he thought. Gotta gear up Gotta gear up. He thought about cruising down L, maybe picking up a hooker for some quick head. But the dark avenue, its corridor of black stone and gla.s.s, showed him little to choose from tonight. Just a few strays; it was too early. Bored at the succession of stop lights, he picked up his car phone and punched in 1900LIVEs.e.x-local girls, he'd heard. A voice like slow, running honey answered: "Talk to me, baby. Let's get it on."

"Jesus Christ!" Johnny replied, "your p.u.s.s.y stinks so bad I can smell it over the phone! What kind of a loser are you anyway? You too stupid to get a real job?"

"f.u.c.k you!" the girl shot back.

Johnny laughed. "I wouldn't f.u.c.k you with an elephant's c.o.c.k. It'd be too small, big as your stinky p.u.s.s.y is. Get a life." He switched off and dialed another one.

"Pleasure Line," another oozing female voice answered. "You ready to party?"

"Let me start with a joke," Johnny said. "You like jokes?"

"Sure," the woman said. "I'll play with myself while you tell it."

"Fine," Johnny said. "Here goes. What has a little d.i.c.k and hangs down?"

"What, sugar?"

"A bat," Johnny answered. "And what has a big d.i.c.k and hangs up?"

"What?"

Johnny hung up, barking laughter.

It was best to hit the pickup joints late; by then most of the cooze was drunk and showing their true colors. Johnny parked the Nissan in a BMI garage. "The Lot," as he called it, was always a great way to gear up first. A dress code kept out the riffraff, and the talent was stateoftheart.

The doorman, spying Johnny's cla.s.s clothes, let him in at once. Lancelot's was D.C.'s best strip joint, strictly highcla.s.s, not one of these redneck s.h.i.+thouses with dancers who had more tattoos than teeth. Johnny got a stageside seat upstairs, ordered a Heineken from a waitress with a killer rack. The stage, an elevated halfcircle backed by mirrors, glowed before him. Lights flashed to Foo Fighters; Lancelot's was rocking. A dancer who looked just like Heather Locklear moved with the beat, absolutely flawless in her nakedness. Patrons gathered round the stage to tip her; the deal was you stuck a buck in her garter for a good, close look at her bod. And it was none of this gstring s.h.i.+t at The Lot; the girls stripped down to the bare m.u.f.f. Some of the regulars had made a little local fame. There was one darkblond chick who'd been on some TV shows including Howard Stern, and a redhead who'd supposedly been g.a.n.g.b.a.n.ged in an Italian restaurant by two congressmen and a certain senator from up northways. Then there was the black chick who'd been hounded by the ill.u.s.trious mayor, before the a.s.shole had been thrown in jail for smoking crack in front of a hidden FBI camera at the Vista Hotel. All of them had bodies that could clear out a f.u.c.king monastery.

Johnny settled back, nursing his beer. The Lot was just his primer, an appetizer of vision. Applause exploded when the Foo song went off; after each cut, the dancer had to empty her garter it was so full of cash. What a can, What a can, he thought as she bent over. Hoots fired like rifle shots. Her t.i.ts tossed below her grin, legs like statuesque pillars rising to the trimmed bush. he thought as she bent over. Hoots fired like rifle shots. Her t.i.ts tossed below her grin, legs like statuesque pillars rising to the trimmed bush. Yeah, perfect, Yeah, perfect, Johnny thought. But maybe that was the problem. These girls were too perfect; they didn't seem real to him. They were unreachable. That's why he liked to go on f.u.c.kovers; bar girls he could reach, all right. He could crank off a couple good nuts, and leave goodsized dents in their souls. Johnny thought. But maybe that was the problem. These girls were too perfect; they didn't seem real to him. They were unreachable. That's why he liked to go on f.u.c.kovers; bar girls he could reach, all right. He could crank off a couple good nuts, and leave goodsized dents in their souls.

Next a strawberry blonde stepped onto the stage. Her big implanted b.r.e.a.s.t.s showed off nipples like the tips on cannon rounds. Johnny watched without much interest. No, not real enough No, not real enough, he conceded to his beer. He was itching, he was ready to get out of here and hit a bar. Let's see, Let's see, he mused. The alltime best Johnny Duff f.u.c.kover. Which one? He'd had some doozies. The music, Rage Against The Machine now, beat with his thoughts as the dancer twirled. What had been his greatest conquest? There was the blond broad he'd picked up in some Hampton Mall dance dive. Early forties, made no bones about being married. "My husband's at a meeting in Chicago," she'd said and winked. "He won't be home 'til tomorrow night." Johnny followed her back to her nice, quaint little suburban house. Next thing he knew she was buck naked on the bed, begging him to tie her up. Johnny was always one to oblige a woman's wishes. He'd tied her up good and tight. "You have condoms, don't you?" she asked. "I got 'em, but I ain't using them," he was kind enough to inform her. "Doesn't look to me like there's a whole lot you can do about that right now." She fought against the stocking bonds as Johnny stripped. "See?" he said. He showed her his pride and joy, pointing to a nice, open herpes blemish. "Got a present for ya," he said. Once she knew the score, she started screaming, but Johnny put a lid on that and fast. He stuffed her frilly panties in her yap, tied another stocking through her teeth, and climbed aboard. he mused. The alltime best Johnny Duff f.u.c.kover. Which one? He'd had some doozies. The music, Rage Against The Machine now, beat with his thoughts as the dancer twirled. What had been his greatest conquest? There was the blond broad he'd picked up in some Hampton Mall dance dive. Early forties, made no bones about being married. "My husband's at a meeting in Chicago," she'd said and winked. "He won't be home 'til tomorrow night." Johnny followed her back to her nice, quaint little suburban house. Next thing he knew she was buck naked on the bed, begging him to tie her up. Johnny was always one to oblige a woman's wishes. He'd tied her up good and tight. "You have condoms, don't you?" she asked. "I got 'em, but I ain't using them," he was kind enough to inform her. "Doesn't look to me like there's a whole lot you can do about that right now." She fought against the stocking bonds as Johnny stripped. "See?" he said. He showed her his pride and joy, pointing to a nice, open herpes blemish. "Got a present for ya," he said. Once she knew the score, she started screaming, but Johnny put a lid on that and fast. He stuffed her frilly panties in her yap, tied another stocking through her teeth, and climbed aboard. What'd I f.u.c.k her? What'd I f.u.c.k her? he strove to remember now. he strove to remember now. Three, four times? Three, four times? He'd jerked the last one off in her face, and then he'd left, neglecting, of course, to untie her. He wanted her hubby to have something interesting to come home to the next day. He'd jerked the last one off in her face, and then he'd left, neglecting, of course, to untie her. He wanted her hubby to have something interesting to come home to the next day. Your wife picks guys up in bars when you're out of town Your wife picks guys up in bars when you're out of town, he'd written on the wall. Then there was that silly s.h.i.+tfaced brunette who'd put the make on him during the Halloween party at The Network. Dressed up in some dumba.s.s devil costume, so drunk she could barely walk. He'd driven her back to her apartment in Severna Park. She didn't even give him time to hang a p.i.s.s before she was blowing him on the bed. But every few sucks she kind of paused and wobbled. Then she lurched up, groaned, "Oh, G.o.d, I'm gonna-" and then bent over the bed and blew chunks all over the nightstand. Johnny couldn't help but laugh. "I'm really sorry," she slurred, "I guess I drank too much," after which she slumped over and pa.s.sed out. Johnny saw no reason to neglect the indulgence of a perfectly good erection for the paltry fact that she was pa.s.sed out. That would be derelict. So he hauled off her silly devil's costume and rolled her over on her belly. Then he spat a loogie in her crack and sodomized her. The girl remained out cold for the whole thing. Why waste water flus.h.i.+ng the toilet? Why waste water flus.h.i.+ng the toilet? he reasoned after he gave up his nut. This was a timely concern; Johnny believed in conservation. So before he took his rod out of her, he pulled a good long hot beerp.i.s.s into her r.e.c.t.u.m. he reasoned after he gave up his nut. This was a timely concern; Johnny believed in conservation. So before he took his rod out of her, he pulled a good long hot beerp.i.s.s into her r.e.c.t.u.m. Johnny on the spot, Johnny on the spot, he thought, and wiped his c.o.c.k off on the curtains. Before he left, he wrote on the wall: he thought, and wiped his c.o.c.k off on the curtains. Before he left, he wrote on the wall: I b.u.t.tf.u.c.ked you and p.i.s.sed up your a.s.s. Happy Halloween. And Happy Herpes! I b.u.t.tf.u.c.ked you and p.i.s.sed up your a.s.s. Happy Halloween. And Happy Herpes!

There were many more. He supposed he cherished them all, and why shouldn't he? The raucous music brought him back; Johnny smiled now in the aura of memory. Memory served him well, his past feeding energy to his future. The blond stripper gyrated like a top of flesh; her silky hair rose like a skirt. Then she slid down on her side and lifted a leg 'til it was perpendicular. Within the trimmed, waxed public hair, the slit of her v.a.g.i.n.a seemed to smile at him...

Time to stop looking and start doing, he concluded. He tipped the blonde a five, paid his tab, and booked.

Outside, the city night seethed. The lines were too long at Hatter's and Jonah and the Whale. Rhythmic vibrations filled the air; at the corner, black kids were playing pickle can drums like an African war dance. Across the street, Whackie the clown juggled flaming sticks for a pa.s.serby audience, and from some distant crevice in the city, a lone trumpet brayed over the night.

Hearsay's looked good; they rarely had a line because the joint was so big. Johnny strode into the crush of patrons. No line, sure, but it was crowded like mad. The bar stretched on, cavernous, dark, yet deafening in laughter and ba.s.sladen music.

Like h.e.l.l, he thought. he thought. And tonight I am the Prince of Lies And tonight I am the Prince of Lies.

He scouted Hearsay's three great rooms, and squeezed through the dancefloor, taking advantage of the opportunity to rub his upper arm against some topheavy yuppie brunette's 44Ds. Enough to make a guy go on a milk diet, Enough to make a guy go on a milk diet, he fantasized. he fantasized. Baby, I'd suck on those hooters 'til you didn't have enough t.i.t left to fill a training bra. Then maybe I'd do you a big favor and suck on that big p.u.s.s.y of yours 'til your uterus popped into my mouth. Baby, I'd suck on those hooters 'til you didn't have enough t.i.t left to fill a training bra. Then maybe I'd do you a big favor and suck on that big p.u.s.s.y of yours 'til your uterus popped into my mouth. He ordered a Mich at the back bar, eyeballing the T&A. Most of the girls had guys with them-smug overdressed D.C. putzes-or were with friends who chattered away like parrots. Here was ditzy blonde in a s.h.i.+ny silver dress-and with stained teeth-running her hand up her boyfriend's a.s.scrack, some typical city s.h.i.+thead with d.i.c.kstupid eurof.a.g black hair and a goatee, all dressed in black. He ordered a Mich at the back bar, eyeballing the T&A. Most of the girls had guys with them-smug overdressed D.C. putzes-or were with friends who chattered away like parrots. Here was ditzy blonde in a s.h.i.+ny silver dress-and with stained teeth-running her hand up her boyfriend's a.s.scrack, some typical city s.h.i.+thead with d.i.c.kstupid eurof.a.g black hair and a goatee, all dressed in black. Christ, honey, Christ, honey, Johnny thought. Johnny thought. Why don't you just pull his pants down and f.i.s.t.f.u.c.k him right here in the bar? Why don't you just pull his pants down and f.i.s.t.f.u.c.k him right here in the bar?

Another blonde, with hair so platinum it looked white, and with a racehorse bod, was sticking her tongue so intently down some bald guy's throat it looked like she was trying to make him throw up. A table of couples argued rather heatedly over who was American history's greatest writer, William Faulkner or Kathy Acker. Acker seemed to be winning, but Johnny hadn't heard of either; he didn't know from writers.

Writers were p.u.s.s.ies.

A Bonnie Raitt tune rasped from unseen speakers. The husky, s.e.xual voice about made Johnny pull a stiffer, like maybe he could mosey up to Platinum Baby and jerk off a goodsized nut right into that crispy, phony hair of hers, or maybe give Silver Dress some Special Delivery Johnny Duff Pearl Drops to whiten up those potdark teeth. You think maybe you can take your thumb out of Euroboy's a.s.s long enough for me to f.u.c.k the dog s.h.i.+t out of you? I gotta friend I'd like you to meet. His name is Mr. H. You think maybe you can take your thumb out of Euroboy's a.s.s long enough for me to f.u.c.k the dog s.h.i.+t out of you? I gotta friend I'd like you to meet. His name is Mr. H. Johnny's rampant hormones and social vehemence were going apes.h.i.+t in his head now. Johnny's rampant hormones and social vehemence were going apes.h.i.+t in his head now. I need a f.u.c.kover, I need a f.u.c.kover, he affirmed. he affirmed. Otherwise I'm gonna bust my pants and rip a gusher of p.e.c.k.e.rsnot across the bar right into some yuppie bimbo's Amstel Light. Otherwise I'm gonna bust my pants and rip a gusher of p.e.c.k.e.rsnot across the bar right into some yuppie bimbo's Amstel Light. Johnny needed a loner, he needed a mark. Johnny needed a loner, he needed a mark. I need to sink I need to sink, he thought, each word resounding like a hammer to brick. But every beaver's got a c.o.c.k tonight. But every beaver's got a c.o.c.k tonight. This frustrated him. Silver Dress bent over for her purse; Johnny wished he could be invisible and maybe take a bite out of her fat a.s.s, then give Euroboy a good kick in the lumps, if he had any. Baby Platinum was still tonsileating with Bald Guy. This frustrated him. Silver Dress bent over for her purse; Johnny wished he could be invisible and maybe take a bite out of her fat a.s.s, then give Euroboy a good kick in the lumps, if he had any. Baby Platinum was still tonsileating with Bald Guy. Christ, why don't you just stick your Christ, why don't you just stick your head head down his throat? down his throat? Johnny wouldn't mind conking her on the bean with her Corona bottle and treating her to a free Dr. Duff Beerp.i.s.s Enema. Johnny wouldn't mind conking her on the bean with her Corona bottle and treating her to a free Dr. Duff Beerp.i.s.s Enema.

He milled around another hour, wandering amid waves of m.u.f.fled music, dim light, hot bodies. When his trek took him full circle he was back at the bar. "Another Mich?" the keep asked. Yeah, and how about a nice wet box I can shoot a creamer in? Yeah, and how about a nice wet box I can shoot a creamer in? Johnny thought. Johnny thought.

"Yeah," he said, and in a dissociated blink of music and light and mindless chatter and inane laughter, a stark, c.o.c.kstiffening voice behind him said, "A man with a mission."

Johnny turned.

A subtle smile. Gray jeans hissed as trophywinning legs crossed on the stool. "You look like you're on a mission. You look like you're looking for something."

Yeah, you. Johnny went into a cool lean. "Maybe. Everybody's looking for something, somewhere, aren't they?"

l.u.s.trous auburn hair. Perfect, straight ivorywhite teeth behind the perfect smile. "It's best, though, when people looking for the same things find each other."

Ho, Mama! It was time to spiel. No rings, he noticed. And no telltale kind of boyfriend jewelry s.h.i.+t. Just her, all woman right there next to him like a gift of flesh dropped into his lap. Johnny got to talking, the usual bar jive. He didn't hear half of what came out of her mouth, but he didn't need too. You could tell, sometimes you just knew. She was looking to get laid. "I like the summer best," she was saying in that soft, soft voice of hers. A faint perfume made Johnny think he might come in his pants. "Like right now," she was saying. "Hot, you know? Real hot." It was time to spiel. No rings, he noticed. And no telltale kind of boyfriend jewelry s.h.i.+t. Just her, all woman right there next to him like a gift of flesh dropped into his lap. Johnny got to talking, the usual bar jive. He didn't hear half of what came out of her mouth, but he didn't need too. You could tell, sometimes you just knew. She was looking to get laid. "I like the summer best," she was saying in that soft, soft voice of hers. A faint perfume made Johnny think he might come in his pants. "Like right now," she was saying. "Hot, you know? Real hot."

"Yeah, me too. Brings out the best of things."

Another smile. Her hair, backed by bar light, could've been a halo. She looked at him as she listened. She never seemed to blink. You lose your brain, Johnny? You lose your brain, Johnny? he alerted himself, he alerted himself, the last time you took a s.h.i.+t? You forgot to introduce yourself! the last time you took a s.h.i.+t? You forgot to introduce yourself!

"By the way, I'm Johnny Richards," Johnny Duff said.

She offered her hand, which reminded him of a sleek, perfect little bird. The smile fixed on him.

"So what's your name?" he asked after a long pause.

"What are names, anyway? You don't want to know my name, do you? Knowing my name has nothing to do with what you want. Or with what I want, either."

Johnny about s.h.i.+t his shorts. Might as well be wearing a f.u.c.k ME sign. Might as well be wearing a f.u.c.k ME sign. But she was throwing him for a loop; he wasn't used to girls who came right out with what they wanted. "I'm the D.C. scout for the William Morris Agency," he lied. "Screenplays, novels with film potential, that sort of thing." This line always got them going, seemed every cooze in town had some pipedream idea like, "I tried writing a novel a long time ago," or "I've always had this great idea for a movie," after which Johnny would ask about it and act like it was hot stuff, and then he could say something like, "Get it down on paper and I'll send it to our people in New York." But she was throwing him for a loop; he wasn't used to girls who came right out with what they wanted. "I'm the D.C. scout for the William Morris Agency," he lied. "Screenplays, novels with film potential, that sort of thing." This line always got them going, seemed every cooze in town had some pipedream idea like, "I tried writing a novel a long time ago," or "I've always had this great idea for a movie," after which Johnny would ask about it and act like it was hot stuff, and then he could say something like, "Get it down on paper and I'll send it to our people in New York." Yeah, always got them going, a great in, a great way to exploit their makes.h.i.+ft dreams for the gain of his EightInch Wonder. Yeah, always got them going, a great in, a great way to exploit their makes.h.i.+ft dreams for the gain of his EightInch Wonder.

But this girl didn't seem to care.