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"Nothing whatsoever. C'mon. Look at her. What's she thinking?"

"I think she thinks it's good to be standing over me."

"Show me that face, Dawn! Why does she think it's good, Annie?"


"I don't know."


"She's jealous."

"Of you?"

I would be too but far less tolerant: in no condition to sit on the back of Killer without sinking my claws into your soft belly ripping out your insides or perhaps inducing some head-on collision fatal to you and not me.


"Because you're Annie."

"Because I'm Annie."

"And what is this thing called Annie?"

"Annie Shortbread is the sexiest, sweetest, hottest, wildest, most expensive young thang on the face of the earth."

"Is she now?"


Certainly the most expensive.

"Dawn. Is Annie the sexiest, sweetest, hottest, wildest, most expensive young thang on earth?

"Of course she is."

"You wet between the legs, Annie?"

"A little."

"Are you as wet as Trash is right now?"

"I don't know, Trash."

"We need music!"


Tom Jones, Fame, Iggy, Gipsy Kings (Gipsy Kings?), Joan, Ethel, Barbra, Liza, Abba, My Beloved Jimmy. The THREE TENORS!!! Yessirree and loud.

"Okay Dawn. It's evening. Fifty thousand insane perverted opera buffs have filled Chavez Ravine. There's an expectant buzz, like a billion bees, instruments tuning, doin' those runs, lights, cameras, kazillions of dollars in one place. Below you, ass right on top of second base, lies the sexiest, sweetest, hottest et cetera young thang on earth. What are you gonna do?"

"I'm gonna go down on her. Like I always do."

Like you always do, Dawnie, exactly so. That serious tongue of yours getting all red and erect and downright bold -- show me -- moving anything but mechanically into Annie, taking its time, working out the cute knots in Annie's pubes, coating and flattening them with saliva, a bit like Felix does. Am I sorry for the soul in the child? Dawn and Annie. Dawn on Annie. Dawn in Annie...

And now, Felix decides though it cannot be out of any real need to compete with Dawn because cats simply don't give a shit the moment is ripe to restation himself on our girl model, to stop pawing and go to work with his sandpaper tongue at Annie's majestic chin. You, kitty, are going to be responsible for some wonnerful, wonnerful shots today, a hit with next month's gallery hunters: the cat, the licking, the squirming and violent. It'll all make sense.

My work makes sense.



Where did that line about the soul in the child come from? It cannot be an originally-thought thought. Distinctly un-Trash-esque. More Dylan-esque. Dylan Thomas-esque. Anyway it can't be mine so what's it doing springing up at inopportune moments like that? Mesdames et messieurs, this is troubling.

"Like some apricot nectar, Trash?"

"No thanks."

"Got something else lined up?"

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