“Bad influenza.” Jagger; straw to gimlet. Horse teeth shoving out lips; gaudy fenders. “Is that a pun? Christ…” When he talks it looks like oral sex. He’s tanning. A lewd little boy in Spandex; the Groin Gatsby, afloat on a 150-foot bauble. Right now, he has the sniffles and a hundred temperature. His features are a water-retentive Halloween mask; not a face that should host a head cold. The other Stones are down there somewhere, in wet slow-mo, with rented air, scoping out the coral and trigger...s. Scaring the specimens with horned, goateed jewelry. Scarred arms. Albino eels worth too many million to pester the math. “Sunken cheeks amid sunken treasure,” Mick suggests. “So…what is it? You want my opinion?” He likes the idea, disaffected glee trickling. He lights an antique pipe, tokes. Answers, tucking air in lungs, sounding inside a heavy sack. “…okay. They’re us. If we were good enough to be them.” I jot it down. He dimples Learjet cool. Licks the edge of his perfect little glass, a pink rag sponging.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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