Nate Granzow

“The women who had passed transiently through his life would have likely all agreed that the sunburned Scottish expat possessed the kind of rugged features that promised exotic adventure—the inviting raffishness of a prom date who shows up wearing a scuffed leather jacket, riding a motorcycle with a strategically defective exhaust pipe. In reality, he had just the unkempt, haggard visage of a man who smoked too many unfiltered Dunhill cigarettes, wore too little sunblock, and long suffered from a malaise of which the only palliation seemed to come from roaming about the wilds of Africa in search of something tenacious enough to kill him.”
― Nate Granzow, Zimbabwe Hustle

“Climbing inside and gently closing the door, he pressed the ignition button. He listened to the grumble of the exhaust, seeking some pleasure in it, but it was like listening to a symphony held inside a train station, the sweet melody interrupted by the intrusive clattering of his thoughts rolling through like locomotives.”
― Nate Granzow, Zimbabwe Hustle

“Nick was not an especially brave man. He knew this. He also knew he'd arrived with a thud at his life's nadir, the world he'd known now little more than a pinprick of light miles above him. This gave him a special kind of courage: The prospect of both death and success offered unique appeal.”
― Nate Granzow, Get Idiota

“The car, one of those coachbuilt delicacies named after some French province or variety of grape, practically shouted at Nick that he was far too vulgar and ignoble to even stand beside it, let alone debase its flawless leather upholstery with the seat of his plebeian trousers.”
― Nate Granzow, Get Idiota