“He’ll be the only one,” he said. Then he let out a laugh that sounded like coarse-grain sandpaper against a steel door. “You know how to swim, don’t you?”
I stare idly out the passenger window, at a barefoot, grinning, dancing fool of vaguely Rastafarian extraction, whose chest is slick with so many days’ toil.
I could tell we were getting nearer Fox’s fortress by the growing sound of jungle drum machines in the distance. That and the heads strewn around the corridor.
While following the Pekinese on his morning rounds, they learned, through parables, the three primary steps of distribution: The sniff, the drop, and the bark.
Chun was already dancing among the religious fanatics, his twin katanas flashing silver death as he decapitated and disemboweled the fear-struck aggressors.
It was eerily similar to a place in my hometown, except the degenerates there were my oldest and dearest friends, and these degenerates were complete strangers.