G rolls her eyes, and for a second I think she’s fuguing out, maybe possessed by Nikki. But then she levels a penetrating gaze on me, like she’s looking through my face into my undersoul. Am I wearing an undersoul? When’s the last time I changed it? “What you’re doing isn’t even original,” she mocks me. “It’s plagiarism. I know Lautréamont said plagiarism is necessary, but in this case it just fucking isn’t, all right? It’s just copycat shit. Boring. Vicki already did the grenade thing.”

“Who?”

“Vicki! Vicki Voom!”

“Oh, right. Vick. My mind’s a shiv.”

“You mean a sieve?”

“Right. What’d I say, a shiv? What’s a shiv again?”

“An improvised prison knife. Also known as a shank.”

Then I have a great idea. “Do me a favor, G, speaking of shanks. Get naked and stand with your back to me. The last thing I wanna see is your big, beautiful ass and your LUX AETERNA tat.”

+++++++++++++++++++

. . . I need to drop some Oxys and go to sleep. Tomorrow is another day.

“That’s the last line of Gone with the Wind,” she says to me. “You don’t wanna end on that. It’s racist.” She giggles. “Well, maybe you do. It’s not that racist, and plagiarism is good. Gauguin said so. Was it Gauguin? Another racist. Colonialist motherfucker. Maybe I’m just thinking about our missing meaty Tahiti babes. I want the Lillies in my valley.”

“Fuck, G, you’re all over my mind like a cheap suit bought off the back of a truck.” Was that a Lonnie line? No, it was too labored. Where the fuck did I get that from? I can’t help thinking the Hankenlew is pulling my mystery strings. It’s the kinda pompously stupid thing he’d say when in prosaic mode. I can’t shake the feeling he’s out there somewhere.

“Stop complaining, Deb,” G gently scolds. “Miriam’s ass is the back of a truck, and I’d buy anything off her, especially a first edition of Borges.”