Broke a bone in his face.

Bone.

When I’m on the streets, I watch the teens, watch for a group of four.

On my list, a cluster fuck.

Have a special adapted spray in a metal container. It’s got acid in there, and a hint of ammonia plus a sprinkle of patchouli to add freshness to the carnage. Old hippies never die, they just molt.

I’ll term it… delousing.

Newton Thornberg, Cutter and Bone.

Do yourself a favour, get down to Murder One on Charing Cross Road, buy it. You’ll get a trace of who I am, where I’m coming from.

See all that Jonathan Franzen, Salman Rushdie stuff on your shelf, all those wanna-be Booker Prize contenders gathering dust, all that earnest shit: BIN IT.

Get real, buddy.

You wanna know how the world works, get Andrew Vachss.

Not intellectual enough?

Get James Sallis, he’ll fry your cells. Or for downright metaphysical, Paul Auster.

Crime writing, bro, it’s the new rock ‘n’ roll.

Oh, I kept my word.

Offed a broad on Fri.

I was coming along the Kennington Park Road and a black cab pulled up, a woman got out, and the language of her. She was calling the cabbie every obscenity in the book. Then she flung the fare at him, brushed past me, nearly toppling me, so I thought, ‘uh-oh.’ Followed her, and she was on her cell, roaring at some underling. She turned into a large office building, and I was right behind. Up in the elevator, her giving large to some poor bastard all the time.

Off at the tenth floor and storms into an open-plan area, employees keeping their heads down, not wanting to meet her eyes, which was just fine with me. Slammed into an office and before she could bang the door, I was there. She glared at me, spat: