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"
You
can
suck
shit
,
"
Marla
says
and
pushes
her
punched-out
black
eye
at
me
.
"
Just
because
you
and
your
little
disciples
like
getting
beat
up
,
you
touch
me
ever
again
,
and
you
're
dead
.
"
"
I
saw
you
shoot
a
man
tonight
,
"
Marla
says
.
No
,
it
was
a
bomb
,
I
say
,
and
it
happened
this
morning
.
Tyler
drilled
a
computer
monitor
and
filled
it
with
gasoline
or
black
powder
.
All
the
people
with
real
bowel
cancers
are
standing
around
watching
this
.
"
No
,
"
Marla
says
.
"
I
followed
you
to
the
Pressman
Hotel
,
and
you
were
a
waiter
at
one
of
those
murder
mystery
parties
.
"
The
murder
mystery
parties
,
rich
people
would
come
to
the
hotel
for
a
big
dinner
party
,
and
act
out
a
sort
of
Agatha
Christie
story
.
Sometime
between
the
Boudin
of
Gravlax
arid
the
Saddle
of
Venison
,
the
lights
would
go
out
for
a
minute
and
someone
would
fake
getting
killed
.
It
's
supposed
to
be
a
fun
let
's
-
pretend
sort
of
death
.
The
rest
of
the
meal
,
the
guests
would
get
drunk
and
eat
their
Madeira
Consomme
and
try
to
find
clues
to
who
among
them
was
a
psychotic
killer
.
Marla
yells
,
"
You
shot
the
mayor
's
special
envoy
on
recycling
!
"
Tyler
shot
the
mayor
's
special
envoy
on
whatever
.
Marla
says
,
"
And
you
do
n't
even
have
cancer
!
"
