A few slight amendments.
I’m back in the apartment, my better judgement laid waste by the drink and the drugs. I unlock the safe behind Francis Bacon’s Screaming Pope and pull out an old fashioned paper address book. Wrenching the ancient Nokia from its charger I order a take-away. The voice at the other end of the line sounds French and is surprised and obviously pleased to receive my call. I list my requirements and the voice promises delivery within the hour. We negotiate a fee – $2,000 in used notes.
Now I’m shaking like a lunatic, part of me is already regretting my recklessness. Another part of me is already plotting and scheming, attempting to rationalise what I have just done. Still another part of me is licking its lips in anticipation. This is the part that I catch a lingering glimpse of as I parade in front of the bathroom mirror, holding…
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