Noir: A Novel
by Christopher Moore
Sammy's got all the perspective of a bucketful of dark.
A lowbrow mug who wouldn't know how to treat a member of the gentler sex if she smacked him upside the head with a sack full of vaginas.
As serious as Saint Joan lightin' a cigar.
That mug couldn't catch a cough in a tire fire.
She took a pull on her drink until it made a delicate slurping noise — the straw at the bottom of the glass like a tiny parched elephant.
The night at work moved like honey poured over an iceberg.
I tried to pick Pookie up by the collar, but I couldn't get a good grip and he was a giant sack of staying put.
"Bow - wows and whistle berries!" Myrtle called into the window. "Two fat dagos in the straw! Bun pup, take a shit on it and make it cry!"
Sammy raised a questioning eyebrow to the Cheese.
"Franks and beans, two spaghetti and meatballs, and a chili dog with onions," Stilton translated. "I think she just made that last one up to show off for you."
"Considering what you been through, you're as sober as a church mouse."
"Isn't that ‘quiet as a church mouse'?"
"You'd think, but once you get a few drinks in those little guys, you can't stop them singing."
The sax man stopped playing, adjusted his reed, smiled out of the corner of his eye.
"The drama, doll. Don't add the drama."
"It's how I tell a story."
"But Sammy here does not need the extra drama. Look at the poor guy, he's dramatized already."
The stink would knock a buzzard off a shit wagon.
