—Well, I have known married parent and I have known
divorced parents. I was a Hulkamaniac before six-years-old. I
didn’t learn to ride a bicycle until I was eleven. When I was
thirteen-years-old, I smoked a cigarette for the first time while I
was walking to middle school. I sucked the smoke softly into
my virgin lungs and my walkman cassette player was playing DJ
Quik. It was early springtime—the worms that remained from
overnight left streaks of shimmering slime across the morning
sidewalks like sparkling veins. I sucked too deep and coughed; I
reached down and grabbed the crotch of my denim pants as I
coughed; I was gangster: young, rural, white-kid gangster. I got
my nose broken with a tree branch in my first fist fight (it was
my first, I didn’t know that sticks were acceptable) and in my
second fist fight my bottom lip was split in two.
I gave up gangster. I graduated high school while fighting a
rough run of acne—no junior, or senior prom, but I still managed
to fuck Lora several times just before I turned seventeen.
I probably should have pulled out. I didn’t pull out, I loved her,
and anyway, enough about my childhood, tell me about yours—
Moonmoth finished writing everything down in preparation
for his first phone call with Sunbug. He read it out loud to
Valentino, and Valentino laughed.
Moonmoth tore it out of the notebook and crumpled it up.
“What the fuck, Valentino?” he asked, “What the fuck?”
“Just call her and wing it,” Valentino said.
“I will for sure call her tomorrow,” Moonmoth replied.