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this is an Alliance thing…but not a FILTHY LIEmay be a worse…”Oh fuck you and go slurp a Shitzu shake….”

Janey Got No Gun

The book tour had become a farce. Spit flying, Nam widows crying, and fat broads asking to hook up for three-fers “like old times” because they were floating around Berkeley when Jerry Brown had brown hash… the whole thing had turned into some sort of Vadim’s final get even, but Janey was slogging through. “I’m making real money,” she mantra-ventilated, “not buffalo bucks from that crazy-assed fuck.”

Her eyes came up from the newest interns muff long enough to discern the Manhattan skyline was on the wrong side of the Verrazzano-Narrows Bridge.

“I thought–(hock-p’tu–“get a shave, m’kay?”)— I thought we were supposed to be going to LaGuardia?”

“Christ, you frazzled old hag, can you shut up for a second?”

The intern bounced off the bullet proof glass separating the driver from the cargo as Janey spun around and tore another seam loose in her pants with the motion.

“YOU SAID WHAT?” Janey bellowed, picking pubes from her non-well reseated teeth. Boobs, they’re easy…re-racking enamels are a bitch when there is so much film that shows just where they sit.

Beside her, Jaqui Kerraie waved a hand and continued nattering into his Treo.

“Bitch, we walk in, sign ten books, you hand me the check. That’s the deal. Twenty minutes. Five grand, and I don’t care how many goombas you gotta blow, no one throws shit at her. Deal?”

Janey reached for Jacqui’s phone. He slapped her hand away.

“Suck Michael Jordan’s steak selling ass for all I care,” Jaqui said, “just do it. We’re over the bridge right now.” He folded the phone closed and pulled a bottle of rum from the coaster bar built into the limo’s door.

“You’re up?” he said to Janey.


It was a lightly delivered slap to the still-sore teeth, enough to send the messege.

“Change of plans. We have to fly out of Newark, so since we’re going to be crossing Staten Island, we’re making a stop and selling some books.” Jaqui settled back in his seat and tucked his phone into an inner pocket of his jacket. He took another pull from the bottle of rum.

“We stop in this godforsaken mall, you sign some books, I make us some dime. Did you know Ted is charging us for the airplane’s stewardess as long as–and I quote, “‘She’s spitting close to Atlanta”? That wasn’t in the original deal when I signed on. I was promised that psychopath would be in Montana.”

Jaqui banged the bulletproof glass with his bottle of Cruzan.

“Hey, rough boy? Find me the Staten Island Mall.”

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