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"The bottom line: it was a couple of days before the convention, you have some dead person in a hotel room and the Christian bunch of you didn't want to deal with it. Neither did I, for that matter, but you opened a suitcase of money in front of me. And I had my own reasons too.
I gotta hand it to Republicans, you sexless, soulless freaks. You screw the world like it was a crippled geisha, decide to throw a goddamn coronation for that Shemp of yours in the city--my city--fuck that up, and then come hat in hand, face down, and ask me to help you out.
My father would have first spit up bile, then shoved it in your faces if he knew about this shit. Now there was a Goddamn union man. Back when there were unions--big balled, red hot, fighting unions. Now? Fuck 'em. They've gone the way of Ed Murrow and honest journalism.
Me, though, I'm a freelancer here. Petty. Inessential. Usually out for myself, a fucking mercenary at the mercy of the master that hired me, or at least some hump willing to moonlight now and then. That's the world we live in. I wanted the cash. Selling myself for it, I'm told that it's the American Way.
The city wasn't hot, it was angry. The air sucks you dry and the concrete steals your soul. Shit, I've been walking around limper than Bob Dole's lap during a Teamsters' strike, know what I mean? It was fucking limp, I felt ugly, and there was madness in the air. My body's sagging, but I still feel jagged and blistered, with more than just unfocused anger for fuel. The rest? The anarchists, priests, teachers, firemen, students, Democrats, lefties--those guys? They're walking around with real, focused, nuclear hate churning inside them like rancid milk. The days are nothing more than internal combustion riots with grinding gears and overheated pistons.
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