I steer towards town.
“We’re going back to the interstate?” asks Colletta.
“Not yet,” I say. “I have an old score to settle.”
“I don’t like the sound of that,” she says.
“He killed Apollo,” I say.
At the Chuck E Cheese’s I demand to see the manager.
“Roscoe isn’t here yet,” says the amiable assistant manager, whose name tag reads Shaneequa.
“We’ll wait over by the animatronic bear,” I say. We order a breakfast pizza with extra potatoes and calamari. It isn’t half bad, but I could use a beer.
At noon Roscoe walks in. His eyes have not even adjusted to the darkness before I am upon him. I bring the two by four down on his face, and his nose lays over on its side. He screams and crumples up. “That’s for Apollo,” I say.
“Part action, part thriller, all comedy, The Librarian at the End of the World fires on all cylinders. Fans of Thomas Pynchon and David Foster Wallace will revel in the ridiculousness that is Miller’s America.”
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“Lovecraft turns Beatnik and drops acid”
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“Even Carrie Fisher (yes, her vagina is in here) isn’t safe from this menace!”
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“In the end, this romp becomes something else. It becomes a work of art, moving and funny and memorable.”
Editor’s note: Technically it is her vulva, not her vagina.