Times past, man. Sometimes I can think quite luridly juicy loosed lucid before the multiversal towers were opinionated to blockade past tense
Summer of 1974, just had my fake PI card, ink still wet. Grooving towards the man I now know is Culhane, Sting It, Don't Swing It, Baby.
10 cm out of Wichita a farmer flags me down, pays me a sawbill to prove his neighbor was killing his cows, I found he was dressing them, too
Dressing them in muu-muus, the swine in pearls, then raping, strangling, and using his Polaroid Land camera for the family back home.
Hogtied rawhide the guy upside down bleated a confession but he never knew Culhane, cut him down for the count 1 2 hundred bills, case#1.
It was so easy to think back then, I had my list I had my wits I didn't have to have a lisp singsong narrative from popping reds my eyes
12 Disciples, daddy's friends, docDad's money train. Tt-chk tt-chk. Eye am Watching you. Then there was that time on Earth Designate 11.
Route 66 no kicks there, just a fast buck and a high dive. Find a kid who wasn't a mom but wanted a daddy. Might've been near Joliet IL.
Made him warm not laser beam warm the other, knowing that other people had daddy issues, even the guy who raped livestock cried for pops.
There wasn't yet 4 billion people on this specific earth designate when I found myself facing a man with a gun from behind as he shot once &
the man he was facing (with me in back) jammed to a brick wall, shot two, ricochets in concrete meat street they didn't stop I clipclopped.
But I knew what it was like to be lucid and near dead. Men in jungles and on the moon, me knowing I could find the men who killed my trust.
Then came the spring of '82 and a head wrapped in tinfoil in a basket case told me I had died on Earth Designate 14 by The Black Dahlia.
And all of a sudden reality was like pounding wet sand, slops of memory plops on scenery I was beaten senseless by a Toronto pretzel vender.
Flashback to happier times.When Culhane wasn't a suspect, but a benevolent ally. Trust? Hah. He was a blood brother, Nammer pal, GI Joe.
Culhane wondered about K. The way he blew town in the middle of the night, then mailing postcards from Tunisia & Ankara. Never luggage.
K carried business cards, glossy black on both sides, no text. Gave one to anybody who asked what he did for a living. 'I own the night.'
K owned the night, sure. C was on to his scam, the city-size box draped in velvet, bullet holes for stars. But where did the eye fit in?
K put the car in neutral, rolled down the incline and stopped in front of Culhane's bungalow. Taped the KA-BAR to his leg. He was ready.
C'd been watching the bungalow for a day after Shrimpboat hipped me to Salt's plan. It had been a while since he last used his pliers.
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