in the beginning, I had it figured out different. I thought I was something. I just ain't. Just ain't.
"Verne," he rolled over, "pour another shock of gin."
The day was the maddest possible. A day for big and little murders. Cutting up people. Jagged glass like razors, slicing flesh. Well, why not? The razors cut him. The glass tore jaggedly into the inside of him.
He was on an awful drunk. Kewpie was worried.
"It's my fault," he said to Verne. "I fed him some alcohol and drops. He drank it, talked a while and then suddenly got up and tore off his pajamas. I locked the door and he went out on the balcony. He yelled and yodelled. I got him inside and he began to scream: Tm a dirty mouthed fag … a disease! I'm a low stinking slut! I'm a rotten …!'"
"Shut up," Verne said. "You give me the creeps." He leaned over Ken, who lay on Kewpie's bed. "His breath is foul as a witch's cave."
"Lay off the poetry," said Kewpie. "I'm afraid for him."
"Stay with him then."
"He'll get the D. T.'s next and try to rape the statue of Civic Virtue."
"I suppose I'd better stay up here with him. Call up Feathers to keep me company."
Kewpie vainly tried to find Feathers. Ken moved restlessly on the bed. Needles, file upon file of them*, marched across his back.
"A drink," he muttered.
"Shut up," Verne said, "you gimme the creeps."
At five o'clock that afternoon, Connie called. Ken's
