Did you tell that prospect over there that ‘not a hair’ on my head was to be touched?” “I think I said, ‘not a hair on her fucking head, or so help me God, I’ll make you floss your teeth with your own entrails.’ ” “Ah. That sounds more like you.

He’s a total puss,” Mercy continued. “But…shifty, too. Like, a shifty pussy.”               RJ

His hand moved up to cover her mouth, lightly, and she laughed against it. “You’re suppressing my first amendment rights,” she said, voice muffled.               “You don’t live in America; you live in the United States of Teague.

When would people stop saying his name out loud? Each time was a tiny gunshot through her heart.

How did life get so messed up?”
Maggie dabbed at the corners of her eyes and exhaled, quieting, gathering her composure. “Baby, it’s not messed up,” she said with a reassuring smile. “Just a little bumpy.

The prospect was not-so-subtly studying Rodd or Todd or whatever-the-fuck-his-name-was across the bar. He rubbed his chin. “I think he seems…well, like a pussy–”               “Yes!” Mercy slapped the table. “Thank you. It’s like I’ve been trying to tell them.”               Walsh shook his head with a delicate look of disgust. “No, you haven’t.”               “He’s a total puss,” Mercy continued. “But…shifty, too. Like, a shifty pussy.”               RJ made a choking sound.