Boy my folks are proud of me.
I do not have cops in my pocket, Mr Jones, and while I might be a man who colours outside of the lines, the kind of clout, influence and willingness to take risks is not something I’m interested in.
“You’re here, Mr. Jones, because a woman in a red dress told you to be here. Because she cried in your office and then offered you a lot of money and sweet sorrowful lies. The same reason you do everything.”
There’s something you don’t know about nightmares.
“It comes to all of us,” he thought, “at one time or another.” He then put a cigarette in his mouth, and turned to start walking.
“I always knew… That we were solid. That whatever shit came our way we’d take it on together. That even on days when we hated each other we would take each other’s hands and get through it, together.”
Once upon a time, there was a small strange pub called The Sleeping Llama.
June 16th 1984: At 07:23 AM Fredrick William Jones, age 37, gets out of bed and walks through his house
“I mean It’s only 6 pm on a Tuesday why not have a tequila while you’re at it.”