Sam Henson leaned on the bathroom sink and stared into the tired, expressionless face of an old man of sixty-seven. He studied the sagging jowls, cry lines, and dull eyes that looked back from a forest of unruly, graying hair and bristling whiskers. His mouth barely moved as he addressed the image.
You're one sorry, useless, piece of shit. Can’t work, can't eat, can't fuck … Hell—can't even think. All you can do is sleep and fart.
Click Follow to receive emails when this author adds content on Bublish