A STEELY COLD NIGGER gaze pierces the heart of Fatso, and I must wince because I know the purveyor will himself be pinched. It is out of perhaps utmost sympathy that Knife, mine, lets the judgment be swift once there is the apparition of that stupid stage prop.
The telegenic power required of Knife to make its mission known is exceptional when reckoned with the shield-like blare of festival music or the hum and misanthropy of three hundred thousand frightened freakies, but I must confess Knife knows no hesitancy in its grim devotions, for it sees sure as a shaman the presence of its mortal enemy, Pistol.
" Do him," Sunshine says. She's my mama.
Sheesh. Some day they're going to serve me a subpoena for this.