i'm on a different computer.

a different keypad.

it rattles when i type. it almost sounds like an old fashioned typewriter.

i like that.

i feel like i should be typing a mickey spillane novel.

chapter 7:

Then that dame walked through the door. That dame. All legs and no heart.
Her jewelry jangled as she slid across the room like a lioness.
"Are you Jack?", she asked.
"That depends on who's askin', i suppose", i said.
"Elizabeth Woolworth.", she returned.
Elizabeth Woolworth. I knew that name. I was in the army with a fella name of woolworth, but i'm sure there's no relation. He was a pale, red- headed, irish-looking lad and ms. woolworth is a dark skinned brunette. But none of that mattered now. i reached underneath my desk and pulled the trigger on my 20 gauge sawed-off shotgun i had mounted, and blew her beautiful tans legs off at the kneecaps. There was no more time left. I had to be at the fight. My brother's life depended on it.

meanwhile, in some other news:

i will be at jj's blues bar this friday night with scott boland sitting in and the bronx zoo on saturday. i regret to inform those concerned that i will not be able to be present at the wreck room this thursday. i'm fairly positive that i will be ill.

chapter 8

My brother was an 8-1 favorite. He could have whipped that bum with one hand. but he owed money. a lot of money. he was gonna fall in the sixth and make it look good or else.
Jimmy was a helluva fighter. Southpaw middleweight with a left hook like a wrecking ball. I couldn't stand to think of him throwing a fight. i had to get there before the sixth round.

scene out.

i must pee,

scott