There's a model who used to be a refugee. One day she was a fucking refugee, and the next day she was doing what models. I wonder what she would say if I asked her what it's like. I'd like her to say, well I just do things, you know. They ask me to do this or that, they pay me. That's what I know. There's no accounting for it. I don't know why I'm here and not there.

People wonder about me. When they meet me, they think, how. How did he do it. I know it, I know the look. They don't think I know. I want to tell them, you do things to get things. There's no accounting for it. I don't know why I'm here and not there. You don't either. You ask why I'm here, you don't ask why you're here. Don't ask. It doesn't matter. What would you do with the answer if I gave it to you. What would happen, if you figured it out. You do things to get things, that's what you do. There's no accounting.

When we first met she was nervous. I moved her into the house, the big house. Her little frame moving around in her little dresses. When the maid would walk down the hall at the same time as her, she wouldn't know what to do. She'd get out of the maid's way, she'd hug the wall.
 I liked to think of filthy things to say to her. Things that'd make her toes curl, make her look at me in that way. That's what I liked to do.
 Sometimes I'd find her staring at me. When you're laying in bed falling asleep, and you catch her staring at you, that's when you know. She would be laying there staring, and I'd turn to her, I'd ask her if she was mine. Then I'd ask her to prove it. Her lying there, skinny and dumb. Not dumb, just young, good. Honest. I could feel her will, it was very small back then. Like her hands. Small and feminine. Look, I'd say to her, I like you. You know that, you know that I like you, right? You're a great girl. Great Girl. But there's one thing I need you to do. I need you to promise that this time will be the best. Like I said, I like you and all, but you know. I've got to get off, that's all. You should be able to do it. What else is there for you to do. What else you got to think about. This is your life now, you have no other worry on the planet. And I was right, what else was there. I don't know how it changed. It was the kid. The kid gave her the idea, when she was still pregnant. I never wanted to have the damn kid. How could I be so weak.

What they called a church was a room added onto a small house and you could see into the kitchen from the front door. The young pastor the oldest son of the family that built it. In that morning's congregation sat two women whom he slept with and he stood in the doorway of the church and smoked and thought about the women. He lit his second cigarette on the first and turned his face to the firmament and filled his vision of it with pale smoke. He was a thinly mustached and impatient man who had to be talked out of absconding the town regularly. He looked out over the country that abided his ambitions and wondered if his first child would change him. Finally he placed a kerchief over his face and went inside.

In a back bedroom of the house, Joe cut the boot from the man's swollen and gangrenous foot. They had tried to pull it off, but the man's screaming was too much, and now Joe took a pair of iron shears to the thick hide

What they called a church was an add on to a small house, and you can see the kitchen plainly from the front door of the church. The pastor of the church the oldest son of the family who built it. Two women whom he slept with were present that mornings congregation and he stood there in the doorway and smoked and thought about the women. He ashed the cigarette and shook his head at the firmament.

Joe and Richard had pulled the boot from the man who near emptied the church of its parishioners with the stench of his rotting foot, and the pastor observed the man's foot half consumed by maggots with a kerchief held to his face he pulled aside to smoke.
 You ever seen this?
 No, said Joe.
 The pastor pointed at the desintigrating flesh, his finger shaking, what, what is to be done here. We don't got no damn doctor.
 What's a doctor gonna do.
 The man lay there, his voice vulgar and hallucinatory

I don't know what it was. I can't say he was willful, or even strong. He looked strong. But I knew enough of him to see him for the wavering, opportunistic, lucky idiot he was. It was his jaw. He had a very strong jaw, and it made him look like knew what he was doing. Like when he'd leave the bar with a girl, that look he'd have, as if he willed it to happen, but I knew she was pretending he was someone else, and he was pretending she was someone else, and he was just glad he could look good in someone's eyes. He was just lucky there was another fool there that night, that's all.

^^ When i512 joins a group of homeless looking guys because some of them are agents, describe them in this way, make it look like he was really in that group. He sells some drugs to them, but is small time.  He starts selling for one of their group and gets in. Write stupidity first of all, and distinguish agents through anecdotal

I don't know what it was. I can't say he was willful, or even strong. He looked strong. But I knew enough of him to see him for the wavering, opportunistic, lucky idiot he was. I think it was his jaw. He had a very strong jaw, and it made it look like knew what he was doing. Like when he'd leave the bar with a girl, that look he'd have, it was as if he willed it to happen, but I knew she was pretending he was someone else, and he was pretending she was someone else, and he was just glad he could look good in someone's eyes. He was just lucky there was another fool there that night.

There is something about the boy that sends a shiver down a spine if thought about for too long. In the actions of any man, there is a thread to be found that through sufficient observation unravels his reasoning, his motivations, the origin of his actions so to speak. So that, when he is not present, one can summon his voice in times of uncertainty, one can ask what would he do, or not do. But his will, as it occupied the minds of those who considered themselves his friends, though intoxicating, was unknowable. Its idiosyncrasies were strange and unfamiliar, and so friendship was only an illusion, and the people in his life were unwilling captives of their admiration, which was not replicated in anyone other than Joe.

Her smell, her hair there on the pillow. She looked at him like a cat. He felt her small will, her feminine will. He took her by the hair. You gonna get me off, girl? Well are yah? It's important that I get off. You're a nice person and all, and I like you. But you know.

When Johnny was a boy, the only time he ever told the truth was when he got a lie turned backwards on accident. You know the kind. Well, he never did stop, really. If you ever happen to be a stranger in one of the two bars in that town, and you per chance strike up a conversation with a mustachioed man drinking whiskey by himself, you're libel to be taken on a doozy of a trip.

Men who will die graveless.

He stepped out from the land the stories of which he knew and into the land the stories of which he had only heard. He placed his hand in the stream and passed his hand over the rocks smooth and molded. Somewhere here __write some piece of southwest history that displays courage under fire__. What the land knew of human courage, of cowardice. What the land knew of man that he didn't know, what is it saw in him that he didn't see. A shiver resonated through him. He felt as if at the mercy of a stronger being, as if there were a will for him to navigate, as if being observed by a familiar and powerful thing. The feeling lasted for a minute and then left him,

He found Richard asleep by the fire. He poured the water from container to container until there was no soot to settle at the bottom and placed it over the dying fire to boil. He watched Richard. His strong jaw, his honest eyes. He wondered if there were anything within him he didn't know.