Now firmly holding the position of my new favorite author. (Don’t say I’m just a cat….I’m a cat who writes, which means I can also read. Right? Right!)
He was dead when I got there. Dead as a doornail, deader than a dead fish, deader than Kelsey’s nuts, dead as … well, I think you’ve figured out the message I’m trying to convey here. The son-of-a-bitch was fuckin’ dead!
The door of the hotel room had been ajar, so I entered without knocking. Someone had bashed his brains in. No, that’s not accurate. Someone had bashed his brains out! They were oozing from the wound and congealing on the floor where he lay. His name is not important but, for the record, I’ll tell you. When he was breathing, he was known as Vinnie “Five Fingers” Diamonte. Now that he was no longer breathing, you can call him anything you want, which would have been a dangerous thing to do when he was among us—the living. He wasn’t called “Five Fingers” for nothing. (I’ll leave it to your…
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