A rebuttal to euthanasia; life both without qualification and quantification. "Life and life more absurdly."

When one freebases on her messenger bag, she of courses obliges by sitting there, blouse open, real horrorshow-like, a carnival exhibit, and we were paired like two racing cleats, or a team of oxen, one curse to knock down two mistakes, as it were, God's economy--not a dream house, but a pumpernickle swift move to redress the balance neatly, and from nature, not much other than a hot dose.

Her boobs were pointing at the gulf of travertine between us, and that a nice green like the felt of pool table, but infinitely more durable, and her tits white like a blank sheet of paper, an unapologetic senile piece of A4 that had forget not only its sins, but the feeble excuses for such lapses in judgement.

A mafia hitman, sans both mafia and kills, a kind of Great Unwashed sitting in a flamboyant semi-formal shirt eating a sandwich made of organ meat, and of course, the bun: sesame seeds, to perturb posterity, beyond the speed of light, beyond the purse of eternity, and posterity having one look at him and laughed at first reaction, as Camus said, enough scorn overcomes any bad luck or ill fortune, any misplaced intention, love given to the wrong litter of puppies.

An exotic dancer, from the far end of the town--exotic enough for horseshoes--neither dancing nor possessed of any other nervous gift of nature: he had watched her put lotion underneath her belly, into the cleave of the fat roll.  And he lived to tell about it.  They were pure Elmore Leonard on one side, the side with the building, and Horatio Alger on the other side: this Lincoln penny laying on the train tracks waiting to die.  Why her only dance was the consequence of nature as she walked normally, and her only exotic quality was a rarity, like an uncommon, unknown disease.

He thought at that, he could wake up dead, or wake up and not feel bad about anything, in which case he would assume he were dead, or absent-mindedly knit a silken tie around the closet hanger rod as she performed a show of some kind, legs spread, trimming her toenails, and him just wanting to go meet Jesus, one would guess.

Claiming Elmore Leonard, but leaning out towards Vonnegut, dashes of Anthony Burgess and Nabakov, maybe even Dosteovsky, somewhere in there, if he ever put two coherent and partly honest words together; she the Ibsen, perhaps, or Nietzsche's final curse on the Ubermensch, a woman capable of sustaining that peculiarity and long, long evaporation into whatever trace minerals.