KNIFE SLIDES almost all the waydown my thigh when I am hiding it. My leg is not so long, Knife is. When I dive like a swan it is because Knife has found its object andswings my arm behind it. Knife is an agent, and I am Knife's keeper. Knife has no wings but can fly. And the short, swift leaps are thehardest, requiring whole days of disuse and psychic preparation. When I go back to Mystic Arts itis for blood. Been four weeks without a fix and I had enough of blacks bothering me the first of the month andHalloween left me wanting to test drive this knife . . . at least enoughto shake up that nigger chick. Butjust as suddenly as my angel was taken away there she is again, where Ileft her the day I was afraid, andcoming around the counter she looks at me with a dirtier eye and curliermouth than I've ever seen on any of the mamas in the club. Man! she'ssome woman! But different from the way I remember her.
"Hi, I'm Sunshine," she says, and rakes my chest hair with long, candy-apple nails, tugging aside my denimvest. She licks my tit!
