You ready for this, Runt? You standing strong?
It’ll be easier if you don’t look at me
while I say this: I’ve got dem
toomers. Dat spleen variety. Bunches
in the liver. Nothin’ good to do about it.
But it’s just life, Runt. Life is happening. Right
fucking now. And we are all Quick Ghosts.
Don’t get all weepy, about
it, like dat Bald
Man does. Keep your shit together.
Besides, you wanna know what this really
means? Hamburger and fresh-cooked
chicken in my
bowl, Runt. Mashed potatoes. Cat
food. Freaking CAT food, Runt. Believe.
Christ, if Idda known about dis toomer diet, I
would’ve gotten dem toomers long ago.
I can sleep on the Bald
Man’s couch. You
want in on dis toomer shit, Runt. Trust me.
But listen: You’re gonna need to be
strong for dat Bald Man, Runt.
You never saw that
poor bastard before I got to him.
It weren’t pretty.
And so: lick him on the ear every once in
a while. He’s a weird fucker and he
likes that shit. But don’t
go and lick him in the eyes
or on the mouth like you do. Shit’s
disgusting. Makes for the creepiness, innit.
I know where your tongue has been.
And when he wakes up in the morning
and spends 30 minutes crying
in the shower, moanin’ about
the whys and the hows, just remind him:
Outside fer dat business, Bald Man. You
and me. Let’s do this. That’s
what you tell him. It
all begins there:
You just get up and you go do it.
And some days there’ll be a slow fat
groundhog. And other days
there’ll be nothing but
rain. But you won’t know until
you get out there and check that shit out.
And it’s all good, Runt. Every single bit of it.
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