I may have mistaken some periods for commas, but here you go.
he was a rich bastard
in the steambath,
crying. he had all the recordings of
J. S. Bach and it still wasn't doing him
any good. he had stained-glass windows
in his place plus a photo of a nun
pissing. still no
good. he once had a taxi driver
murdered
at full moon in the middle of the
Nevada desert while he
watched. that -
wore off
in
30 minutes. he tied dogs to crosses and
burned out their eyes with his dollar
cigars. old
stuff. he screwed so many fine young
golden-legged girls
that it... wasn't any good
anymore, -nothing.
he had exotic ferns burning while he
bathed. he threw drinks in the face of his
butler.
a rich bastard, insidious paste
he was. a real old
creep, a spitter into the guts of
roses.
he kept crying there on the table as I
smoked one of his dollar
cigars.
"Help me, oh JESUS, help me!" he
screamed.
it was about
time. "wait a minute," I told
him.
I went to the locker and got the
belt and then he was bent over
on the table, all that white mush
meat
that hairy sickening
ass
and I swung and laid the belt buckle across
hard
again and
again
ZAP! ZAP!
ZAP! ZAP! ZAP!
he fell off the table like a crab looking for the
sea. he crawled on the floor and I followed him
with the buckle
ZAP!
ZAP!
ZAP!
while he screamed
again and again, 2 or 3 times I leaned down and
burned him with the
cigar.
then he laid flat,
smiling.
I walked into the kitchen where his lawyer sat
drinking
coffee.
"finished?"
"Yeah,"
he peeled off 6 tens
threw them across the table.
I poured a coffee and
sat down. the cigar was still in my
hand. I threw it into the
sink.
"jesus," I said, "jesus
christ."
"yeah," said the lawyer "the
last guy only lasted a
month."
we sat there sipping the
coffee. it was a nice
kitchen.
"come back next Wednesday," he
said.
"why don't you do it for
me?" I asked.
"ME? I'm too
sensitive!"
we both laughed and I
dropped in 2 cubes of
sugar.
