Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 82121 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82121 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
I make a face at him. “What’s with you and those things anyway? Why not eat something else?”
He sighs and rubs his forehead like he’s talking to an idiot. Which is very annoying.
“Chicken nuggets have been scientifically formulated to be perfect.”
“Come on. Fuck off.”
“I’m not kidding. You think these big fast food chains don’t have like dozens of food scientists working on this shit around the clock?” Carlo looks at me like I’m some naive little baby. “Get your head out of your ass, bro.”
“Yes, it’s consistent, but perfect? That’s fucking dumb.”
“No, it’s not. Think about it. Nuggets have that golden, crispy breading, and the inside is like this white chicken slurry—”
“Chicken slurry?”
“Yeah, bro. You don’t think chicken protein comes in those shapes do you? You’ve seen a chicken, right?”
“I’m going to fucking strangle you.” I squeeze my eyes shut. This is what happens when I’m stuck in a car for hours at a time with him. Carlo gets bored and starts talking about the most insane shit and I start to imagine very elaborate murder scenarios. Like right now: I could drag him out into the street and slam his head under the loose manhole cover sitting in the road a few feet away.
“Slurry, bro. It’s like chicken thigh, beaks, guts, whatever random chemicals, all blended up into the perfect slurry. They have it down to a molecular science.”
“If it’s so fucking good, why are you sick of it?”
He stares at me like I’m not understanding him. “Because man was not meant to feast upon perfect forever.”
I lean my head back, close my eyes, and try to block him out.
We’ve been watching this boring hotel for the last few weeks. Every day I come out here with Carlo and take a shift, staring at every car that drives up, peeping at them through binoculars, staking the place out. It’s obscenely boring, but it’s too important to trust it entirely to the soldiers. They take the night shift—this place has to be under surveillance day and night, every single second of every single hour—and my phone’s always on and ready to wake my ass up if Finn arrives when I’m not around. But during the day, it’s me and my brother.
And he’s going on about chicken nugget slurry and ambrosia, the nectar of the gods. He’s way off the deep end now.
I wish Molly were here. I miss her when I’m not home. Hell, I even kind of miss her brother and her grandmother—I’ve gotten really close with those two since they moved into their new place. It hasn’t even been a month but we’re over there at least once a day, and Molly’s there more often, pretty much whenever I’m not home and she’s not working.
She’s happy. Or at least I think she’s happy. I spend most of my time performing my various acts of service—most of which involve me down on my knees licking, sucking, and fucking different parts of her body—and getting to know her in ways I never thought I’d know another human being.
Like for example, I know she thought the Backstreet Boys had gone to prison because their first single was all about how Backstreet was back or whatever. She figured that meant back from doing time. Which is hilarious. She was barely alive in their heyday.
And I’ve told her things I don’t tell anyone. Like about my fears around the family, how I’m worried Renzo’s taken on too much by becoming Don, and how our father basically traumatized all four of us to the point of being vaguely defective. I try not to tell her any detailed stories about what he did, but she’s gotten the gist.
I still haven’t mentioned her to anyone but Stefania and Dante. They both bug me about her all the time—especially Stefania. That girl has no chill in her.
“Bro, are you listening?” Carlo’s sitting forward with the binoculars plastered to his face. It’s a little past six in the evening and we’re at the end of our shift. I’m ready to go home and spend some time with my lovely, pregnant wife. Maybe fuck her in the bath. I haven’t decided.
“I tuned out your slurry rant a while ago.”
“I moved on from the slurry. Bro, look at that car.” He shoves the binoculars into my hands.
I peer at a dark green sedan parked in front of the main entrance. My heart starts racing as sweat breaks out under my arms. Finnian Lynch supposedly drives a dark green sedan. And when the driver’s side door opens—
The man who emerges is tall and wiry with a shock of black hair. He’s wearing khakis and a dress shirt like he’s coming from a golf course, and I have to admit it’s a really fucking good disguise, but I know that hooked nose and that puckered mouth.