“I know what death smells like. Death smells like gasoline, singed hair and fingernails.It smells like cooking meat. My meat.”
“My meat smells like cat food. Makes me want to lick my own asshole.”
“We parked in back and walked down the stairs with their polished brass railings, past the old-fashioned kitchen. We could see the chefs cooking. It smelled like stew, or meat loaf, the way time should smell, solid and nourishing.”
“What does he smell like?” “Smell like?” I scrunched up my face. “You know, he looks like he’d smell good.”
“Death smells like birthday cake.”
“What is that?"..."Why do you smell like that?"..."Smell like what?""You smell delicious."..."You smell like food. Why do you smell like food?”