‘Everything was falling into place. But it all hinged on one detail.
Whether or not Abelino chose his mother as his first fuck.’
‘That was a cheap shot,’ I could hear Gartland.
‘Well it beats fucking your sister,’ I thought, as I banished Gartland from my mind.
He could moan as much as he liked over the book I wrote about him.
But for ten US dollars, there was very little chance the guy could raise the funds on a book that outlined his career as a con man and professional flasher, yes he’s the guy who is sniffing amyl nitrite and wearing a non-descript trench coat and flashing his wrinkled balls, replete with bleached pubes, which are hanging down to his knees.
Mark Rogers is pushing the boundaries of sparseness.
There’s no time for sightseeing in this book unless Blue Eyes wants to get the lay of the land.
The guy is going to learn to fly soon. Blue Eyes is fucking like a pig.
Give this guy a go.
His Mexico is intimate.
Wet cigarettes, watered down bleach, yeah, you are getting it.
And did I mention brothels?
Cartels?
Crappy pizzas?
Whatever, but as soon as the man crosses the Rio El Grande Wall, something changes inside him.
Call it living, call it a calling, call it growing balls, call it grooving into Mexico, Blue Eyes is going to take you places.
Before you know it, things like mortgages, a steady job, and a wife, will pale into insignificance.
A man without his adrenalin fix is not a man.
