apple corer of mv unconsummate cock. Who shot Cock Robin? . . . The sparrow falls to my trustful Webley, and a drop of blood gathers at his beak. . . .
Lord Jim has turned bright yellow in the woe withered moon of morning like white smoke against the blue stuff, and shirts whip in a cold spring wind on limestone cliffs across the river, Mary, and the dawn is broken in two pieces like Dillinger on the lamster way to the Biograph. Smell of neon and atrophied gangsters, and the criminal manque nerves himself to crack a pay toilet sniffing ammonia in a bucket. . . . “A caper,” he says.
‘I’ll pull this capon I mean caper.”
Party Leader (mixing another scotch): “The next riot goes off like a football play. We have imported a thousand bone fed, blue ribbon Latahs from Indochina.
. . . All we need is one riot leader for the whole unit.”
His eyes sweep the table.
Lieutenant: “But, chief, can’t we get them started and they imitate each other like a chained reaction?”
The Diseuse undulate through the Market: “What’s a Latah do when he’s alone?”
P.L.: “That a technical point. We’ll have to consult Benway. Personally, I think someone should follow through on the whole operation.”
“I do not know,” he said for lack of the requisite points and ratings to secure the appointment.
“They have no feelings,” said Doctor Benway, slashing his patient to shreds. “Just reflexes . . . I urge distraction.”
“The age of consent is when they learn to talk.”