Chinese Kinetics
I wish you could see the wool suit I have on. Pleated, three-button, navy blue, Enzo Barbagelata. It has the nicest deep pockets for my watch and my money stash, and a little inside pocket about one square inch where I keep my bag of coca. A humble Sicilian family made the suit just for me, you see. I paid over two-thousand dollars for this suit. Can you imagine how it makes me feel so creamy?
You think it might be a special occasion. But I don't just wear fine suits on special occasions, I wear them every day. I have a whole closet of suits. When you have money like I do, you can never have enough suits. Some of these suits I buy from families. Some of them I steal from the people I have killed, like tokens of victory. Sometimes I forget to wash them. You should see the faces of the wives when I pass by them wearing their husbands' suits. They smell the familiar smell on me and they know faster than any words could say.
One suit came from a man whose head I tied to the train track. I was so careful, not even one drop of blood on the suit, can you believe it? And then the man I stuck in a concrete block, I had to take his suit off first of course. What a beautiful man. Beautiful men have no need for suits, they are already so beautiful. He looked beautiful even after they discovered him at the bottom of the ocean, half his face eaten by sharks. I am so jealous. I will not look so beautiful in death. I am not even beautiful in life. So I wear a fine suit and it makes me look better.
I have been captured by the Chinese. I speak into a recorder now while the spinning saw blade lowers slowly toward my head. Idiotic Chinamen, they will cause the ruin of my suit. Two-thousand dollars into the toilet! They should instead inject gasoline into my heart, for example. Then they could keep the suit. But the Chinese do not appreciate a fine suit. My killers have on red and blue polka dot coats with white strings where buttons should be. They do not even appreciate a decent haircut, those Manchu imbeciles.
You see? Look at my blood gushing down onto these Super 150s wool collars. I made them promise me they would cut off my head, boil the flesh off of it and keep my skull as a souvenir. How can they do that when they are putting a sawblade through my head? And what a waste of a perfect suit! Such indignity for a man like me.
You think it might be a special occasion. But I don't just wear fine suits on special occasions, I wear them every day. I have a whole closet of suits. When you have money like I do, you can never have enough suits. Some of these suits I buy from families. Some of them I steal from the people I have killed, like tokens of victory. Sometimes I forget to wash them. You should see the faces of the wives when I pass by them wearing their husbands' suits. They smell the familiar smell on me and they know faster than any words could say.
One suit came from a man whose head I tied to the train track. I was so careful, not even one drop of blood on the suit, can you believe it? And then the man I stuck in a concrete block, I had to take his suit off first of course. What a beautiful man. Beautiful men have no need for suits, they are already so beautiful. He looked beautiful even after they discovered him at the bottom of the ocean, half his face eaten by sharks. I am so jealous. I will not look so beautiful in death. I am not even beautiful in life. So I wear a fine suit and it makes me look better.
I have been captured by the Chinese. I speak into a recorder now while the spinning saw blade lowers slowly toward my head. Idiotic Chinamen, they will cause the ruin of my suit. Two-thousand dollars into the toilet! They should instead inject gasoline into my heart, for example. Then they could keep the suit. But the Chinese do not appreciate a fine suit. My killers have on red and blue polka dot coats with white strings where buttons should be. They do not even appreciate a decent haircut, those Manchu imbeciles.
You see? Look at my blood gushing down onto these Super 150s wool collars. I made them promise me they would cut off my head, boil the flesh off of it and keep my skull as a souvenir. How can they do that when they are putting a sawblade through my head? And what a waste of a perfect suit! Such indignity for a man like me.
posted by Row of Streetlights at 10:44 AM
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