February 2006
The way the words tumble out of the guy’s mouth, I can’t tell if he's drunk or some kind of barroom wizard. He holds up a shaky finger and points at the yellowed portrait of Elizabeth that hangs, tilted, against the dark paneled wall.
First, by going to the street – yes, the street – to show you a no-holds-barred, live, for-real drug bust. This will not be a simulation. These will not be actors playing parts. You’ll be there, with me, feeling the heat, down and dirty, in the belly of the beast.
He ain't pretty lak how Roderigo pretty, though. Roderigo got roguish beauty, if there can be sech a thing: well-defined jaw, dark curls, dark eyes, an' kissable dimples adornin' both cheeks.
The suck of the void. He felt ill. Sick. No sleep hardly, a ton of booze, sex he couldn’t remember.
In the now it's a ghost town. Filled mostly with viruses.
Yet, even then, fear of Winslow Manor, kept me far from ever stepping near the threshold. Until one day. My eighteenth birthday, matter of fact.
When he became famous, my mother told me terrible things would happen to us if people found out we were related. Someone might even try to kill us.
I nod at him and mouth the words "excuse me" as I walk to the porch to light a cigarette. This whole place is such a mess.
He took another draw, then inspected the end of the joint. The resins were already starting to build up.
We both know now how silly questions can be.