Michael Malone - Weebly

this post office? Like a sweat shop in here. Hey, let me
give you a hand with that. Quite a package.
Typewriter?"
"That's okay, Limus. I've got it."
Don't kid yourself, Lime ole pal. They could have
bought one of your typewriters if they'd wanted to, if
they believed that shit about supporting your local
businessmen. But they got it in for me, that's all; simple
as that.
There she was. And there was that boy, Smalter's
pal; the punk that tried to start something about the
motorcycle. Was he trying to get her talking or just
buying some crummy stamps? What was it about her?
The Packer kid knew she had it, the way he was
watching her move. Lots knew. Her asshole husband
leaves town for a week, and lots start sniffing around.
Like Abernathy. His own wife gives him the brush-off
and runs off with some crummy hippie. Then he comes
panting first thing and invites somebody else's wife to a
lousy tea party at the Lattice biddy's. And women fall
for that pansy bullshit. That's what kills you. They
always do. And all the art-fart crap that goes with it.