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8 pages, Audible Audio
First published January 1, 1987












My stomach was empty and it licked through me like canned heat, settled heavily into my testicles and phallus, roared darkly into my brain, filled my heart with the rancid, primordial juices of a Viking reveling in his own mortal wound. ... I had heard the klitch under my foot in the dark on the jungle trail; then, as though I were a spectator rather than a participant, I saw myself covered with cobalt light, my body crawl with electricity, my soul light the trees like an enormous candle.

It was the Louisiana I had grown up in, a place that never seemed to change, where it was never a treason to go with the cycle of things and let the season have its way. The fall sky was such a hard blue you could have struck a match against it, the yellow light so soft it might have been aged inside oak.
p. 1
The evening sky was streaked with purple,
the color of torn plums, and a light rain had
started to fall when I came to the end of the
blacktop road that cut through twenty miles of
thick, almost impenetrable scrub oak and pine
and stopped at the front gate of Angola
penitentiary.
p. 49
“Oh, my, you shouldn't have done that,”
the man in the raincoat said.
Erik grabbed my hair and slammed my
head against the side of the tub. I kicked
at all of them blindly, but my feet struck
at empty air. Then Bobby Joe locked his
powerful arms around my neck and took me
over the rim again, his body trembling
rigidly with a cruel and murderous energy,
and I knew that all my past fears of being
shotgunned by a psychotic , of being
shanked by an addict, of stepping on a
Claymore mine in Vietnam, were just the
foolish preoccupation of youth; that my
real nemesis had always been a redneck
lover who would hold me upside down against
his chest while my soul slipped through a
green, watery porcelain hole in the earth,
down through the depths of the Mekong River,
where floated the bodies of other fatigue-clad
men and whole families of civilians, their
faces still filled with disbelief and the
shock of an artillery burst, and farther
still to the mossy base of an offshore oil
rig in the Gulf of Mexico, where my father
waited for me in his hardhat, coveralls,
and steel-tipped drilling boots after having
drowned there twenty years ago.
p. 80
“Why are you so obnoxious, Motley?”
Clete said. “Is it because you're fat and
ugly, or is it because you're fat and dumb?
It's a mystery to us all.”
p. 121
I slept through the rest of the
afternoon and woke in the cooling dusk
when the cicadas were loud in the purple
haze and the fireflies were lighting in
the trees. I showered and felt some of
the misery begin to go out of my mind
and body, then I took a taxi to the Hertz
agency and rented a small Ford.
Because most of the Quarter was
closed to automobile traffic at night,
I parked the car near the French Market,
by the river, and walked back to Bourbon.
The street was loud with music from the bars
and strip houses, and the sidewalks were filled
with tourists, drunks, and street people who
were trying to hold on to their last little piece
of American geography. My favorite bunch of
hustlers and scam artists, the black sidewalk
tap dancers, were out in force. They wore
enormous iron taps that clipped onto their
shoes, and when they danced to the music
from the bars, their feet rang on the concrete
like horseshoes. A tap dancer would stop a
tourist, rivet him in the eyes, and say, “I
bet you a half-dollar I can tell you where you
got yo' shoes.” If the tourist accepted the
wager, the dancer would then say, “You got
yo' shoes on yo' feet, and yo' feet is on
Bourbon Street. You ain't the kind, now,
to back out on yo' bet, is you?”