A bit of writing from T. Fox Dunham as he announces the East Coast release party for his first novel, The Street Martyr, available in book stores and online October 1st.
Party to be held at Tabora Cafe - Lansdale Store. 209 W. Main Street. Lansdale, PA 19446. Saturday, September 28. Event begins at 3 p.m. Facebook Page
They’re sitting here with me now at Molly’s. Vincent is hung over the bar, pushing back his greasy dark hair. He’s wearing an old blazer that reeks of pot smoke and mildew. The fall air still warms, and he’d sweat in his leather jacket; however, winter is coming with a promise of a Nor’easter that will sweep away predatory priests and mob kings. His old companion and bane Louie sits next to him on the barstool, except he has to lean up on his elbows to keep eye level with Misty, the blond chemistry student that slings whiskey sours to the lads as they drink and try to figure out how they’re going to stay alive for another week. Vincent’s mom dies of cancer, and Louie’s mom took off years ago, leaving him to fend for himself.
“Thanks Baby,” Louie says. Most of his hair has fallen out.
“You call me baby one more time, I’m going to drive that shotglass up your ass and catch it when it falls out of your pug nose.”
Louie grins. “That’s sexy.”
Vincent rolls his eyes. If Louie keeps it up, they’ll be thrown out of another bar. They’ve run out of dives on South Street, so today they drove down to Lansdale to scout out a Rite Aid that’s said to have a shitload of pills. I can’t help but watch, catching glances while sipping from my screwdriver. Finally, Louie spots me. He looks self-conscious, pulling back the few strands of hair he has left down over his bald spot.
“You some kind of queer?” he yells over Vincent at me.
“Take it easy,” Vincent says.
“Don’t you two wankers let me down,” I say back.
“What the fuck is he talking about?” Louie asks Vincent.
“I put my life into you,” I tell them. “If I’m dying—and it will come sooner than later, then you are what I leave the world. You two dumb asses."
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