They can talk shit about each other behind the others' backs, but when it comes down to it, money is the one true race and everyone down here is the color of greenbacks and as tall as mountains.
The clerk is looking at me. His expression hasn't changed. What I want to do is punch a hole in the front of the desk, reach through, grab his balls, and make him sing The Mickey Mouse Club song. But these days, I'm working on the theory that killing everyone I don't like might be counterproductive. I'm learning to use my indoor voice like a big boy, so I smile back at the clerk.
If you ever need to confirm that a girl is worth coming back from Hell for, show her your monster arm and see what she says.
Proximity to normalcy is a nice turn of phrase; you ought do a needlepoint, frame it and shove it straight up your ass. Keep it there with the rest of your wisdom.
Fuck you, angel. Fuck you and all God's little prison bitches. He slips you some cigarettes and a con job smile and you run off to do his dirty work for him. Go and scare some sinners. No one's listening to you here.
Did I hurt your feelings again? Sorry. When this is all over I'll send some flowers to your inner child.
