I am going away for the better part of the week to NYC, and so this blog is on hold until then. Write-ups will resume Monday, Mar. 2, 2009.
The Prophet of Dystopia
15 minutes ago
He didn't see anything unusual about the Chevrolet pulling out from the curb near Eighth Avenue; it looked just like any other hundreds of Chevrolets in Harlem - a poor man's Cadillac.
"I shouldn't be saying this, I suppose, but you look like a better class of man than we usually get in a job like this, and I hope you're going to stay with us."
"Dis sho is good fish," he said
He's gon' listen to me, Emmanuel thought, and rejoiced, knowing nothing about the gin and what had happened a few hours before in the heat, in the filigree of sunshine and the strident sound-layers of insects.
The quiet of the room was almost total, but not peaceful.
"The main attraction is to be the movie he made of you and those muscle boys."
"Oh no ... " Carrie gasped.
"The character you call Mr. Worthington is known to crookdom as Viper. He is a hood, a punk, a parasite on the anatomy of society, biting deeply."
The scent of mulled wine was in her nostrils, the ringing of Prokofiev in her ears, as - shaking, still reluctant - she awarded herself to LeRoy for that sacred moment, and touched her face against his.