“I got to go.”

“One more, nights still young”

“Not after 18 hours straight, I need a fucking bed.”

“C’mon, I’m buying.”

“Fine. Fuck it. I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”

“Tell the one. About the guy from the other day.”

“So this bottle rocker I know calls me about this degenerate shit bird that tried to snatch this old ladies purse. He tried making the grab on the MTA but the old broad’s survived the Holocaust you think she’s giving up her bag easy? Fuck no. She hits this mother fucker in the head with her Kindle. He staggers back, makes a blind grab, and takes off with the damned thing.

So my guy tells me where he’s laying his head at night. Figures it’s worth a quick $20. We check it out and sure as shit he’s there in an abandoned rowhouse.

The door is an old rotted piece of shit. It will go easy. I kick the door right below the handle and my foot goes right through the panel and swings open trapping my leg and dropping me to the floor. I figure I’m fucked and wait for it but this motherfucker never even heard us come busting in.”

“How the fuck does he not hear you making that grand entrance?”

“You won’t fucking believe it. I get up and go to the kitchen. This mother fucker’s sitting at the kitchen table and he’s jerking off to the old broad’s bricked Kindle. Half a second later he’s laying a load across Emily Dickinson’s face. I give him a shove and it takes a second for the hit to resister because his hand gets a few more strokes in before he hits the floor. Christ, you gotta admire the focus.”

“Tell ‘em what he said, tell ‘em what he said.”

“You won’t believe this shit. He looks over at the Kindle and says, “I wish it was Virginia Woolf.”