LACE pt. 1: the after-party1. THE AFTER-PARTY [WITH CHARLIE “CHUCKY” O’DEA]LACE pt. 1: the after-party
My name gets tossed around a lot in the ashes left behind after the high-tension quick-burning disco inferno that was the marriage of the dead-meat slug Cooper Robinson to the late Ashley Smart. Late as in she hasn’t shown up yet, not as in she’s dead, like we feared until she called Mickey’s cell phone and told him to start without her, she’d be, like I said, a little late. My name, for the record, is Charlie O’Dea, just in case you wanted to get in on the dodge-name game, but most of my comrades call me Chucky or, when I’ve been an awf
Pit Bulls.The way some people collect baseball cards, ties, autographs, I’ve got this collection of fabric strips festering under my bed. They’re not, like, bandages or anything. They were never all that dirty, not like that. They’re all these different colours and fabrics, some of them soft like gift tissue and all shiny see-through if you hold them up to the light and some of them all thick and tight-knit blended fabrics that would itch if you wore them. Pure cotton and scratchy polyester and mock satin with, and I’m being candid here, the strangest half-naked women with torpedo boob jobs printed on the bits that haven’t wornPit Bulls.
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