Angela Weber (childhood friend): 4:23am in the morning so we won’t wreck the car in a head on collision, multiple-car pileup. Incinerated bodies with cause of death termed in fancy multi-syllable medical terms.
Jessica Stanley: that goddamn retard. I mean Bella, not Varner. She’s got like, human bone meal in her cranium instead of grey/white matter. I talk to her and she’s dazed, eyes misted over looking at the ceiling fan (whir whir and blur), like she’s autistic. Her pupils dilates and I can see the grey stirred up mush through them, like her eyes are wrought iron gates and the shit’s starting to pool out between the iron laced bars.
In the dark, the banknotes rips viciously against my thumb, wafer light slices of fiber watermarked and embossed fortune trapped between my fingers. The dirty smell of money permeating the dark claustrophobic space. I can feel the way the molecules of fresh cash pushing up my nostrils, busting the blood-brain barrier. ( Collapse )