"This is the dirtiest whore of a city you'll ever see," Otto said with smoke spilling from his mouth. He was grinning. Streetlights washed over us in a rhythm, interspersed with pockets of darkness, repeating. We sat rocking on the wide seat of a taxi hissing over dark streets past factories and grey stone buildings.
Edward C. Lynskey
The Dutchman's Razors
The real estate agent, to his credit, was quick on his feet. "This end unit is fresh, repainted within and without. The floral wallpaper is new. The floors are re-varnished. Offstreet parking is a nice bonus, particularly right here in the District." He furtively swept up the other agents' business cards off the gas range.
"So, Iím waking up to this burble of maps and commentators on the noon news. And last night it was the raccoons again, the fucking raccoons they never give up. Somehow, donít ask, a pair of them tore the fascia loose at the rear of the house and then hung upside down while they chewed through the half-inch plywood soffit beneath, until they had a hole about two feet long and ten inches wide, like someone had fired a rocket through the thing, vinyl flopping and plywood splinters sticking out and the great darkness of the attic beyond."