Nov 19 2011
∞
“ Some man in China say th’ truth comes out this,” he said, unwrapping an ancient, oilslick Remington automatic shotgun, its barrel chopped off a few millimeters in front of the battered forestock. The shoulderstock had been removed entirely, replaced with a wooden pistolgrip wound with dull black tape. He smelled of sweat and ganja.
“That the only one you got?”
“Sure, mon,” he said, wiping oil from the black barrel with a red cloth, the black poly wrapping bunched around the pistolgrip in his other hand, “I an’ I th’ Rastafarian navy, believe it.
“That the only one you got?”
“Sure, mon,” he said, wiping oil from the black barrel with a red cloth, the black poly wrapping bunched around the pistolgrip in his other hand, “I an’ I th’ Rastafarian navy, believe it.
— Until I’m re-reading one of his books, I always forget how much I adore William Gibson’s writing.
