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Another fine mess

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The Terror of Living - Urban Waite He sat in the near-dark, one finger running thoughtfully along the deckle edges of the pages, remembering how his dad used to love him an awful lot then less so. Or so it seemed. But you never know. Love worked that way.

In another room in the city, the blond man ate his popcorn but it didn't fill. The hunger creeped up and tapped him on the shoulders, wondering politely when he was going to get his knife bag out.

The drug-runner ran some drugs, his hand on the pommel, guiding the horse along the trail. He stopped and dismounted, his fingers on some very specific kind of flowers that they have here, remembering some very specific information about their biology, before sniffing the air cautiously. Like a bear. He was full of regrets. Not hungry at all. He thought of his dad.

The blond man got his knife bag out. He smiled.

It was still near-dark in the room, and the book read fast but flawed. He didn't care. He was just trying to do what he was trying to do. And the world rolled on, the way worlds do. He wished he had some popcorn. Maybe that would satisfy.

The drug-runner's drugs fell out all over the floor. They opened up a hunger in him, but not that other kind that drugs sometimes pretend to satisfy, but a different kind, about money, that drugs also don't fill. Hunger was like that. His dad went away when he was little. That opened up a hunger that the drugs couldn't fill. But neither could the drug money. Still, he was a good man, and he was full. Full of shame.

The blond man smiled all the way, changing trains in the station, the hunger waiting patiently, not tapping his shoulders any more but occasionally looking at its watch, raising an eyebrow, meaningful-like. Then the blond man noticed he'd left the bag in that last train. It was so unlike him. The hunger looked pretty pissed now. Someone was going to pay.

This review is a bit snotty, maybe, or maybe just silly. The book was a bit silly, or maybe just slow. The action stuff moved, and once we get to it there's a clean crisp attention to the mayhem that is admirably achieved. There is also a lot of dad stuff, and Hemingway kept tapping me on the shoulders, at least until Cormac snorted with exasperation behind Hemingway, said he didn't know what the hell Hemingway was on about 'cause it was his stuff being all homaged and shit. The two men stared daggers at each other, literal daggers. The reviewer again slipped into being an asshole, and decided enough was enough. The hunger wasn't filled.