“I never checked the birth certificate.”
“Never checked the birth certificate! What a crazy mother fucker you are!” The lips laughed hysterically.
“Do you have paint and canvases?”
“Do I have what?”
“I need paint. I’ll paint the fuck show on the walls. I’m a famous artist in Thailand. Don’t you know?”
“No, is that so?”
“I have to draw when the fuck show begins.”
The lips laughed hysterically. She coughed from choking on her own saliva. “Wanting to pay in paint?” she asked.
“Wanting to paint a fuck show,” he said. He looked through her mouth. He could see down her throat into her entrails. Her brain was where her stomach should have been.
“Where to?” asked the taxi driver. The voice again seemed like one he could vaguely recall. A boy who had been on top in the fuck show (a boy 18 or 19 who was a snowman with a bit of a French complexion) was seated next to him. He remembered paying top Canadian dollars for this boy.