My Booky Wook by Russell Brand
8 min @ my desk, Toronto
Fuck. Seriously? Every single time… Just once, a break. Please God.
The brother had a gimp leg and a curdled smell to his breath. He had cornered her by the big speaker at the corner. The bass shattered through her anorexic frame. She had asked about the family lineage hoping to ingratiate herself and thereby get a little closer to the Gypsy King. Epic fail. What in her distracted and quizzical gaze gave an indication of interest? The middle space behind his right ear was infinitely more riveting. Polly kept her head averted, the cluster of whiteheads on the left corner of his mouth made her want to wretch. Did he look in a freakin’ mirror? Why would she want to put her mouth near that playground of puss and in-growns?
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