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fortune | cowsay
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/ Now I was heading, in my hot cage, down \
| towards meat-market country on the tip |
| of the West Village. Here the redbrick |
| warehouses double as carcass galleries |
| and rat hives, the Manhattan fauna |
| seeking its necessary level, living or |
| dead. Here too you find the heavy |
| faggot hangouts, The Spike, the Water |
| Closet, the Mother Load. Nobody knows |
| what goes on in these places. Only the |
| heavy faggots know. Even Fielding seems |
| somewhat vague on the question. You get |
| zapped and flogged and dumped on -- by |
| almost anybody's standards, you have a |
| really terrible time. The average |
| patron arrives at the Spike in one taxi |
| but needs to go back to his sock in |
| two. And then the next night he shows |
| up for more. They shackle themselves to |
| racks, they bask in urinals. Their |
| folks have a lot of explaining to do, |
| if you want my opinion, particularly |
| the mums. Sorry to single you ladies |
| out like this but the story must start |
| somewhere. A craving for hourly murder |
| -- it can't be willed. In the meantime, |
| Fielding tells me, Mother Nature looks |
| on and taps her foot and clicks her |
| tongue. Always a champion of monogamy, |
| she is cooking up some fancy new |
| diseases. She just isn't going to stand |
| for it. |
| |
\ -- Martin Amis, _Money_ /
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\ (oo)\_______
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