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234 pages, Paperback
First published July 1, 1991
The truth was loose: I was the son of a son of a bitch, an ancestral prodigy born to clobber my way through loathsome dungheaps of idiot labor. My genes were cocked and loaded. I was a meteor, a gunslinger, a switchblade boomerang hurled from the pecker dribblets of my forefathers' untainted jalopy seed. I was Al Kaline peggin� home a beebee from the right field corner. I was Picasso applyin� the final masterstroke to his frenzied Guernica. I was Wilson Pickett stompin� up the stairway of the Midnight Hour. I was one blazin� tomahawk of m-fuggin� eel snot. Graceful and indomitable. Methodical and brain-dead. The quintessential shoprat. The Rivethead.