The woman in the red dress lurched beneath me and I reached for the gun beneath my pillow. There were three shots in the chamber, just like the woman in red.
I like this young man very much.
Sitting in the lounge, staring at the lime green walls where brass light fixtures had been lazily tacked up next to modern art finger paintings, I started to really believe that maybe all of this was a dream I lived. I wondered if tomorrow I would wake up in a mental institution from a thirty year coma famished and insatiable. Maybe Sanatine's Golden Son was little more than a garbage collector who got hit in the head by a stray recepticle and now hallucinates a grandiose lifestyle of women and invention. If it hadn't been for June's softness that morning, the real warmth of her sleeping flesh, I might not have simply laughed that thought away. I need a drink.