Nothing’s certain but death and clown porn. Or at least, the certainty that if you can attach the word “porn” to any other word, you can google and there it will be, lurking in the dark corners of the web like the black spidery mass-spiculated, they called it-in the grey MRI image of Hollie’s left breast. It was difficult to believe in an invisible ( Read more... )

On Monday she roasted a peacock, carried in by three footmen who turned their backs to each other to fit through the doorway and nearly knocked over the television. She had wrapped the breast in gilt foil and cunningly mounted the tailfeathers so that the bird presented in the meal as he had in life, courting her husband. Her husband sat, pale and ( Read more... )