Here comes Tony Cecil driving his pride and liability, a shitty sea-green DeVille amply
rusty, trunk strapped shut with a bungee, and it clatters like a diesel.
Here comes Tony Restreppo who used to run a chop-shop in Terra-Cotta, WI. Now he socks hot
sex to a Russian plus-size model called Katja. Look at that motherfucker chomp
kalamatas. Later he jerks off to autopsy photos.
Here comes Tony Classic with a wallet made of plastic, a plastic bag that formerly hosted a
Here comes Tony Sellers pell-mell on shaky-wheeled ten-speed down Alamo hill. He’s got six
sweaty dollars for pall malls & hot fries. He spots Rhonda and runs out the store yelling
and smelling the smells of going broke: engines that run rich, cook-stink and garbage, blunt
breath, dry-rot, wet-rot, overgrowth, weeds gone to seed, and heat. Corner store clerks
behind glaciers of plate glass. Cockroaches that bank and scoot into the dark.
Here’s Tony Bologna sweet-talking. He’s going to talk you into growing pot in your cellar. He’s
going to get you rich quick slinging energy drinks, skin revitalizers, dehydrated fruit
rehydrators with high-rated pliable fibers.
Here comes Tony Two-Time. He’s pulling on his fingers. A News 4 helicopter cuts across the