YOU CAN HOLD her out the window by her hair if you want, but sooner or later the scalp's gonna give. This inverted Rapunzel, her a bloody bald missile screaming downward at 32 feet per second per second, you with the wet rip still in your ears, yelling "Close your legs you hollow cunt, I can hear you whistle all the way up here." This organic wig, it's a tangle in your fingers; your tears come in a stream of anger and frustration and guilt and regret and fucking desire.
I mean how can you argue that whole Rapunzel story isn't just the chick going multi-climactic over the prince with the shoulders pulling down fist over fist of mane. Talk about submission. Jesus——
"Poetry," says Rich, "you sick fuck."
There's tobacco bags made of tits, you got Martin Scorsese inserting a .44 Magnum into the offending orifice in Taxi Driver, you've got a very strong strain of agression——
"There's something distinctly wrong with you, dude."
What, you think I—you think I did any of this? You think, Rich, it's an actual act I'm talking about? You never hit the woman, you never . . . this is a cultural thing. It's been adopted within my lifetime, it's new. And it applies to me just as well. Jesus, what do you think I am?
This is about, what I'm talking about is you have to have the proper response. What I'm saying is, there's a certain human instinct that says lash out whenever you get into a situation where you feel helpless. When you have no appropriate response. We call it "crimes of passion," legally, and what that means is you don't think. At all. You do something stupid and inhuman, something that only hurts everyone. Because you have no response.
I mean, Rich, what do you do? Do you call her a name? A whore? A fucking cunt? How much more painful can you make it? You call her sprung and loose and compare her to an old, beaten catcher's-mitt? Tell her that the ultimate revenge is that she won't be able to elicit any desire five years from now?
Jesus, I guess that's something.
You have to save something as a parting shot. It's always the ineffectual fuckers who just pop and unload with the semi-automatics at close range. Just picture in your mind the last postal worker you seen——
"So what was your parting shot?"
God, I played out all my words long before I had the chance. I guess, somehow, this is. We're all evolved, we just talk it all out of the system, right?
"Uh-huh. And whatever happened to her?"
Whatever happens to a girl? Died, got married, fuck if I know.
"I'll bet, man. I'll bet."