Marco was always pretty smart for a drummer. He knew the record shop wouldn’t be open at three a.m., so he headed straight for the back door . . .
“Can you say something nice about this place?”
My left wrist is throbbing like a siren so I barely register Jackie’s request. She’s the tour’s PR lackey, in charge of pushing me through the subterranean bowels of the Home Depot Center to my press conference . . .
I’m standing here beneath the palms surrounded by six police officers, all of them with their guns drawn, all of them pointing at me . . .
He spotted the guy with the poodle a block and a half away, as he did every morning . . .
Catch David Yow, David Wm. Sims, and Mac McNeilly as they tour with The Jesus Lizard Book!
John smashed the Styrofoam cup. No metal spike under there. Did it again. No spike. Two more cups remained. He smashed one of them . . .
Harry was a twenty-two-year-old junkie who made his living pedaling marijuana to sailors on Telegraph Avenue. He would buy lid bags of Mexican for ten dollars apiece and resell them for twenty. Some nights he would sell five . . .
When I got to the top of the stairs, he pushed his hulking shoulders from the wall and pointed backward at the sign on my door. I made up the half step I’d lost at the sight.
“You him?” he said . . .