Bowing monkeyward, as he does every morning, Caleb Strepthroat, a porcine conundrum with thick yet opaque features that avoid reliable description (bean & bacon soup and a whiskey sour being the meal that comes closest to describing his icy heartfelt Meg Foster eyes), feels a sharp ping of gristle pop in his gut and hisContinue reading “The Inappropriate Laughter of Monkeys”
Crumbling Asphalt 