Another Excerpt from "Crunched," the Fictionalized Autobiography of David Novak

I needed a stiff drink and a starched shirt. Apparently there's no God, at least not one that cares about me, because I knew I wouldn't be getting either anytime soon.

I stood uncomfortably, sober and sweaty, waiting in the sweltering heat of the D.C. summer. The heat was getting to me, sure, but Mr. Sun wasn't making me sweat. The midget samurai's stare was. Don't get me wrong, I've got onions. Big ones. I've killed men and watched others die. But this compact, deadly son-of-a-bitch would make you shit your pants. And while you're shitting, I'm sweating. A little.

We'd tussled a bit in the Rose Garden, when he insisted I hand over my sawed-off. Want my cock in a baggie while you're at it? Seconds later, he had two crushed knee-caps, I had a Level 2 concussion, and we both had some mutual respect. Concussion? I've had worse. A small price to pay for the sawed-off still in my coat. Don't worry, Shorty, I won't hurt the President. Lest you forget: he's the one who called me.

Just before the Oval Office door opened, Bruce Wayne turned to me, all smug with his fancy pants tuxedo and his playboy lifestyle. "I love the Baja Blast, David," he said, "It's Mountain Dew, but better. Goes great with Caramel Apple Empanadas."

"Fuck you." I said.


to be continued...