Rachel grimaced, Maurice was staring at her vag again. She tightened the cross of her legs. What do we dip the wreath into? This is the culling season. Liver. A man with an AKG C414 XLS Large-diaphragm Condenser Microphone hunches next to her breathing heavily. Maurice is standing holding her child’s head. They are fifteen.
Maurice glances over at Rachel, camel toe again. What a damn slut.
Atmosphere is on you all at once. Or, rather, maybe your senses and synapses fire in a certain determinate order, running green in your brain like dense computer code; like fast-falling dominos. But for a simple man like Fred, it was like meeting the place all at once – with a firm, full-body handshake. Freddo, our brave pilgrim at the gates of sensual discovery.
MM) There’s an ironic dimension to the title Confidence Man. It feels like something of a wink or put-on, a provocation of sorts that invites a wry interpretation. Something postmodern or deconstructive about it. The narrator in many of these stories seems to be conducting an autopsy on trauma while simultaneously living with the inveterate spoils. He’s possessed of a sterling, sociopathic charisma and masculine character, yet something’s fundamentally askew,