Vinhos
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Russ Gibb: The Grande started in 1966, and within ten weeks it became a positive cash flow. John Sinclair (MC5 manager, poet, the Blues Scholars): The most we ever got there was $1,800, but Gibb paid us $125 a night usually. We were just so fucking...
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Par didn't mean to fall in love with Theorem. It was an accident, and he couldn't have picked a worse girl to fall for. For starters, she lived in Switzerland. She was 23 and he was only seventeen. She also happened to be in a relationship —...
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It was a simple question. "Can you remember the last day you didn't have a drink?" Laura asked in her calm, soothing voice. She wasn't threatening or nagging. She did expect an answer. My wife is the kind of person who picks her moments. This...
- Filmes (19)
Blood and Black Lace É todo bonito, sei lá. Não tenho jeito nenhum para escrever sobre filmes....
- The Golden Palominos — Dead Inside
I feel the motion of the car before I open my eyes. The air is blue-black, brown-black, black-black. Smell of gas, oil, animals. I'm in the trunk. My wrists and ankles tied. Tape over my mouth, it almost covers my nose, but I can breathe barely. I...
Vinhos
And now? Now I was standing in Nicole's courtyard, in the dark, listening to the loud, rhythmic, accelerated beating of my own heart. I put my left hand to my heart and my shirt felt strangely wet. I looked down at myself. For several moments, I couldn't get my mind around what I was seeing. The whole front of me was covered in blood, but it didn't compute. Is this really blood? I wondered. And whose blood is it? Is it mine? Am I hurt?
I was more confused than ever. What the hell had happened here? Then I remembered that Goldman guy coming through the back gate, with Juditha's glasses, and I remembered hollering at him, and I remembered how our shouts had brought Nicole to the door . . .
Nicole. Jesus.
I looked down and saw her on the ground in front of me, curled up in a fetal position at the base of the stairs, not moving. Goldman was only a few feet away, slumped against the bars of the fence. He wasn't moving either. Both he and Nicole were lying in giant pools of blood. I had never seen so much blood in my life. It didn't seem real, and none of it computed. What the fuck happened here? Who had done this? And why? And where the fuck was I when this shit went down?
It was like part of my life was missing — like there was some weird gap in my existence. But how could that be? I was standing right there. That was me, right?
I again looked down at myself, at my blood-soaked clothes, and noticed the knife in my hand. The knife was covered in blood, as were my hand and wrist and half of my right forearm. That didn't compute either. I wondered how I had gotten blood all over my knife, and I again asked myself whose blood it might be, when suddenly it all made perfect sense: This was just a bad dream. A very bad dream. Any moment now, I would wake up, at home, in my own bed, and start going about my day.
Then I heard a sound behind me and turned, startled. Charlie was standing in the shadows, a few feet away, his mouth hanging open, his breathing short and ragged. He was looking beyond me, at the bodies.
"Charlie?" I called out. He didn't answer. "Charlie?" Still nothing. I went over and stood in front of him and asked him the same question I'd just asked myself. "Charlie, what the fuck happened
here?"
He looked up and met my eyes, but for several moments it was as if he didn't really see me. "Are you listening to me?" I said. "I asked you what happened here."
Charlie shook his head from side to side, his mouth still hanging open, his breathing still short, ragged, and in a voice that was no more than a frightened whisper, said, "Jesus Christ, O.J. — what have you done?"
"Me?'
What the hell was he talking about? I hadn't done anything.
I jumped at a sound behind me — a high-pitched, almost human wail. It was Kato, the dog, circling Nicole's body, his big paws leaving prints in the wet blood. He lifted his snout and let out another wail, and it sent chills up and down my spine. "Let's get the fuck out of here", I said.
I was more confused than ever. What the hell had happened here? Then I remembered that Goldman guy coming through the back gate, with Juditha's glasses, and I remembered hollering at him, and I remembered how our shouts had brought Nicole to the door . . .
Nicole. Jesus.
I looked down and saw her on the ground in front of me, curled up in a fetal position at the base of the stairs, not moving. Goldman was only a few feet away, slumped against the bars of the fence. He wasn't moving either. Both he and Nicole were lying in giant pools of blood. I had never seen so much blood in my life. It didn't seem real, and none of it computed. What the fuck happened here? Who had done this? And why? And where the fuck was I when this shit went down?
It was like part of my life was missing — like there was some weird gap in my existence. But how could that be? I was standing right there. That was me, right?
I again looked down at myself, at my blood-soaked clothes, and noticed the knife in my hand. The knife was covered in blood, as were my hand and wrist and half of my right forearm. That didn't compute either. I wondered how I had gotten blood all over my knife, and I again asked myself whose blood it might be, when suddenly it all made perfect sense: This was just a bad dream. A very bad dream. Any moment now, I would wake up, at home, in my own bed, and start going about my day.
Then I heard a sound behind me and turned, startled. Charlie was standing in the shadows, a few feet away, his mouth hanging open, his breathing short and ragged. He was looking beyond me, at the bodies.
"Charlie?" I called out. He didn't answer. "Charlie?" Still nothing. I went over and stood in front of him and asked him the same question I'd just asked myself. "Charlie, what the fuck happened
here?"
He looked up and met my eyes, but for several moments it was as if he didn't really see me. "Are you listening to me?" I said. "I asked you what happened here."
Charlie shook his head from side to side, his mouth still hanging open, his breathing still short, ragged, and in a voice that was no more than a frightened whisper, said, "Jesus Christ, O.J. — what have you done?"
"Me?'
What the hell was he talking about? I hadn't done anything.
I jumped at a sound behind me — a high-pitched, almost human wail. It was Kato, the dog, circling Nicole's body, his big paws leaving prints in the wet blood. He lifted his snout and let out another wail, and it sent chills up and down my spine. "Let's get the fuck out of here", I said.
O.J. Simpson, If I did It (2006)
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Russ Gibb: The Grande started in 1966, and within ten weeks it became a positive cash flow. John Sinclair (MC5 manager, poet, the Blues Scholars): The most we ever got there was $1,800, but Gibb paid us $125 a night usually. We were just so fucking...
-
Par didn't mean to fall in love with Theorem. It was an accident, and he couldn't have picked a worse girl to fall for. For starters, she lived in Switzerland. She was 23 and he was only seventeen. She also happened to be in a relationship —...
-
It was a simple question. "Can you remember the last day you didn't have a drink?" Laura asked in her calm, soothing voice. She wasn't threatening or nagging. She did expect an answer. My wife is the kind of person who picks her moments. This...
- Filmes (19)
Blood and Black Lace É todo bonito, sei lá. Não tenho jeito nenhum para escrever sobre filmes....
- The Golden Palominos — Dead Inside
I feel the motion of the car before I open my eyes. The air is blue-black, brown-black, black-black. Smell of gas, oil, animals. I'm in the trunk. My wrists and ankles tied. Tape over my mouth, it almost covers my nose, but I can breathe barely. I...