Last Laugh

And Neal would be at it again next weekend—standing at the gay and lesbian shelf in some big box bookstore in some new town, waiting for some dummy to pick him up, give Neal the fuck he craved—today had been a bonanza—and then gift Neal with all his folding money and his credit cards, which Neal would fence for a tidy sum. Neal wasn't from Warsaw. He lived in Fort Worth. And he would never hit the bookstores there.

Next week Kokomo maybe. That was far enough away from Fort Worth—and from Warsaw. These guys had laughed at him while they banged him. Neal was used to that. But Neal always had the last laugh.