10/12/2010
John had the punk and George lie side by side on the bed. he crawled over their bodies while they masturbated, examining each in great detail and making comparisons. Below the neck they were just about even: smooth, washed-out, skeletal. Facewise the punk wasn't much. His eyes were drab, his nose had been broken, his ears were caked with wax, his skull was shaped like an egg. He would have been nothing without punk. John sympathized at first. Then he realized he'd better not care or he'd never get hard enough./pg 8
Alex is slumped in his wheelchair. "I was asleep for a week. When I woke up I..." He lifts the front of his T-shirt. Using a finger, he draws a jagged line across his stomach. "Below that's the vulture meat," he says. "Go ahead, kick it or shoot it or something."/pg 82
I don't know what to say. We're in bed. George has passed out or gone to sleep. His ass looks like somebody threw a grenade at it. He said he fell on some glass. I covered it with a blanket as soon as he dozed off./pg 117
