“Stark, you fuck, how the fuck are you, fucker?”
“Fuck you,” I said, turning with a smile. I know my language is far
from ideal, but Ji makes me sound like a rather fey poet.
We chewed the rag for a while. I recapped the last few months,
mentioned a couple of mutual acquaintances I’d run into. Ji told me
his land had expanded another half mile to the north, which explained
his bar’s continued existence, recounted a couple of especially
horrific successes, and used the word “fuck” just over four hundred
— Only Forward, Michael Marshall Smith.