“Yes?’ he asked, looking at me over the sheet.‘I’m a writer temporarily down on my inspirations.’‘Oh, a writer, eh?’‘Yes.’‘Are you sure?’‘No, I’m not.’‘What do you write?’‘Short stories mostly. And I’m halfway through a novel.’‘A novel, eh?’‘Yes.’‘What’s the name of it?’‘”The Leaky Faucet of My Doom.”‘‘Oh, I like that. What’s it about?’‘Everything.’‘Everything? You mean, for instance, it’s about cancer?’‘Yes.’‘How about my wife?’‘She’s in there too.”

“Are you ready for my love gun?” he says.Uh-oh. “What’s a love gun? Is that a sex toy?”“No,” he says. “I’m talking about my penis.”“Oh,” I say. “Then yes. Fire away”

“Quiet,” he repeated on a growl, “I’m about to fuck my wife and the only words I want her saying when I do it are ‘yes’, ‘Tor’, ‘my prince’, ‘baby’ and ‘oh my God’.”

“We done with this talk about everything?”“Yes,” I answered. “You good?” he asked. Oh yes. I was good. I nodded but added another soft, “Yes.”His hands slid down over my ass and he ordered, “Then hop up baby, Time to f**k.”

“What will you do?""Oh, hell, I'll write a novel about writing the screenplay and making the movie.""What are you going to call it?""Hollywood.""Hollywood?""Yes...”

“How long was I asleep?""Over an hour," the Butcher replied."An hour? Surely not.""Aye. You were moaning my name and saying, 'Oh, yes, Duncan, yes, yes. Again, again...”