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The Blood Jet

He was never nice, yet I let him move in. This, I thought, was experience.

Neck pricklers, irritants, the papery labels seemed glued on, and I cut them off before I wore the shirts he gave me for no reason and which for no reason he often threw away. He was the boss, of course; he could do what he wanted. He insisted we visit the murdered wife’s house, where, poking and poking with his finger at my head, he said, “Bang, bang, bang,” then told me how the banker husband shot her. He took me backstage to meet famous musicians. Rich friends he knew gave us tours of their estates, and he hinted at his own wealth’s growing. He showed off his full-deck-thick clipped wad of money and the diamond his mother once wore on her hand, “It could be yours,” he said, “if you behave.”

unlike you

fuck fucking

waah, waah, waah