Monday, June 4, 2012

Pulp Poem of the Week

I slapped him across the mouth.
I swung my hand back and forth,
slapping him palm and backhand.
The matron pounded on the door
and rushed in. I told her to
beat it. “I’m slapping hell
out of a client,” I said, “and
I don't want to be disturbed.

     Jim Thompson
     The Criminal

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