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drank from the bottle, like I said, the type you
    should marry. My ex drank sherry and was…………vegan.
    We ordered the porterhouse steaks, mashed potatoes, no starter. Sat back and
    surveyed each other.
    She was still amused, then
    ‘What do you know about Indians?’
    She was fucking with me…….ok, I could do that, said
    ‘John Wayne killed a shit load of them.’
    She looked like she could kill me.
    Said
    ‘And you love the stereo- type, what a dick.’
    I took a sip from my brew, said
    ‘And you’re so fooking judgmental, my favorite movies are
    Thunderheart
    Chato’s land
    Ulzana’s Raid
    Dances with Wolves.
    She went to say something and I snapped
    ‘Did I say I was finished? You might be a noble Indian but you could learn some
    fooking manners, I read ‘Bury My Heart At Wounded Knee, love Graham
    Greene, the Indian actor, not the writer and lest you forget, I’m Irish, we had
    some shite come down the pike on us over the years so don’t go Whining Indian
    on me.’
    She leaned over, took my hand, said
    ‘See, I knew you could talk.’
    You just couldn’t fooking win with her, I stopped trying, the food came, giving
    me a respite.
    She ate without inhibition and that was a joy to behold. She stopped mid bite,
    asked
    ‘Why are you staring at me?’
    I was going to bullshit but changed to
    ‘I like watching your face.’
    She wiped her mouth, said
    ‘Good, then you have a shot.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘At getting me in the sack.’
    I was signaling for more brews, paused, said
    ‘Jaysus, you’re awfully fooking sure of yer own self.’
    She leaned over, took some of mashed potato, a very intimate act if you’re Irish,
    she said
    ‘I’ve been a long…………..long time alone, The Shaman told me a man from
    over the Atlantic would steal my heart.’
    ‘What, you think it’s me?’
    Now she gave me the full intensity of those brown eyes, said
    ‘You should be so lucky.’

GACY’S JOURNAL.

At last.
    Worthy opponents.
    I couldn’t have wished for a more delicious scenario.
    A Jew!
    Failed cop, half assed PI, bar owner and an overpowering sense of his own
    strength.
    And true icing on the cake.
    A Mick.
    Now if he could just get his supplier to calm down, he was mouthing off about
    low profile’s, beneath radar!
    As if
    As if genius could be hidden?
    The Irish…….ah……….
    Fresh off the boat, gung ho, full of all the low cunning of his race.
    And richness indeed, The Gods of Boy love truly smile on me, the dumb Irish
    hooked up with a Red Indian.
    ……………………… how sweet it is.
    How blind these Guardians of morals are. All they need to do, is look a little
    further, and there I be, in translucence.
    I throw them a morsel, the loser Gacy, and oh boredom, they go off on a serial
    killer quest. But I’ll keep them a time longer on this track, for utter amusement.
    Keeping it local as it were, Noo Yawk, let’s give them a good ol boy from the
    town they prowl.
    I reached out and touched the dumb Mick, time to ration the load, throw a scare
    into the kike.
    Something to keep him………………barking.

LONG ISLAND IDYLL.

Merrick was up early, the lawn needed trimming and he was fucked if he’d pay
    some guy to do a half ass job and bill him for a full day.
    Growing up in Brooklyn, he’d never expected to own a home on the island. That
    was for rich dudes. After he got invalidated off the force, he’d hooked up with
    Moe, used his cop skills to build up their PI agency, enough so he could put down
    the deposit on the bar. Moe had helped, then, Moe always did, help that is.
    The bar was work, real graft but began to turn a profit and the property became
    available on Long Island. His wife, a care worker, persuaded that with their
    combined salaries, they could get it.
    They did.
    Lot’s of sleepless nights over mortgages but finally, they were within five years of
    owning outright.
    And………………two kids in college.
    He stopped the mower, stared at his home,