the last insurance claws

They were shooting cats and calling it self-defense. The sheriff was calling it the same. That was the trouble with this town, and a short-haired tabby like me was going to claw these sons of bitches to death in this

13 fortune cookies

Virginia shot me and kicked me out of her car—a little awkward, since she had to unbuckle my seatbelt first. I hit the pavement on my elbow, and my funny bone wouldn’t shut up about it. I coughed blood, tasted

one-hour zone

I can’t take a punch very well, because I tend to take all of them, and I’m taking all sorts from Owen right now—uppercuts, hooks, jabs—and I pass out until water whips my eyes. Mr. V is standing with Owen,