Her lips were in that famous downward turn, her eyes lowered and dreamy. She brought a delicate hand to her forehead and pushed a white-blond, perfect curl away from her cheek. Hers was the saddest face I’d ever seen.
Inside, caribou burgers sizzled on an open grill, but I didn’t eat meat then. Alaska Amber was on tap, which was good because I hadn’t learned I liked whiskey yet. It was someone’s birthday. And late spring. Nearing the days that wouldn’t end, when the difference between yesterday and tomorrow would become a blurry, pink line.
I understand about the world of inanimate objects. A sock monkey is a friend of mine. I understand the term age appropriate. Mom tells me that it’s understanding the limits of my mind that keeps me in the basement.
My name is Morgan. As for my last name, shit, I had dozens of them. Make up one. Amuse yourself. Some members of the press know me as Morgan the Cunt-knife. I'm sure you've seen me on TV, in the newspapers. You probably have a friend of a friend who's liked me on Facebook.
The boy showed up at the side of her ice cream truck wearing a fedora (probably his grandfather's) and a beige leisure suit stretched tight across his pudgy belly.
Out toward edge of town, buildings crumble around the vacant lots and trashcan fires, and as I walk past the decay, I feel like I’m being chewed up by a giant mouth filled with rotten teeth. I keep heading toward the Gryphon’s Den where I’m supposed to meet Geoff and settle some business.