his mind stumbles along like incoherent bank-tellers dead cow eyes and perestroika
his anus clenches and releases and he seethes and defies all his fellow bar patrons
his a fucking missile
a V2 rocket
he had always wanted to be a jet pilot, although his family had no tradition of military service, there was an insidious sense of arousal which would flood his penis any time he heard mention of "our brave pilots in that awful mess"
but from his experience in "awful mess" a more appropriate statement would be:
"How many darkies did those egomaniacal speed fiends fry today in that Goddamn Shithole?"
-------
He finishes off the whiskey winces and sees him.
(A miasma seems to settle over any establishment which Clive McKensey enters, a troublesome sort of desperation separates him from them, and they gaze on at him like one would a Gestapo or KGB or Secret Service agent, dead fear)
No he will not be subjugated by this neo-fascist, former jar-head, mid-level, mid-texas, gesticulating bag of hyperbole.
he is ever defiant.
