Well, I been all around your precious Harpiesville, and I gotta tell you it's like a goddamned pisspot. Every block I walked down I was harangued, solicited, intimidated or propositioned. I hate to think what it must be like here for a woman, much less a queen, a fountain pen salesman, or a man wearing the back half of a donkey suit. What is that called, anyway? An ass's ass? And if the man inside were one of these walkway operators, well, that'd just be the motherfucking definition of recursion, wouldn't it?

I'm in your town you son of a bitch, and by the best of my recollection, you owe me a scotch and a recitation of the ABC's. Come and see me. I'm in the Matador.


Letters from Underground