James Morrison:
Christ, what a crew. Take a look at Madeleine True. People flocked to the movies she made, loving the cutie-pie parts she played. She was every man's sweetheart, every woman's guide. Venus... and Adonis, which she never tried to hide. Men dreamed of a real-life wife like this adorable thespian.
[Madeleine makes her way over to two women and begins to dance with them]
James Morrison:
Poor fools they.
James Morrison:
The typical pair of minor movie producers stood engrossed, bewailing high production cost, each of which had suffered most. In twenty minutes each had lost the sum of 60 million dollars. With gestures, after which they sighed - and drank, panting, tragic-eyed, mopping at sadly wilted collars.
James Morrison:
Then Jackie, perfect of form and face. In his veins flowed the blood of more than one race. He left a subtle trail of scent, floating behind him as he went. An Apache dancer, with a special act, New York or Paris, his house was packed. He'd brought marijuana for all to puff, and later he'd bring out the stronger stuff. Cocaine, morphine, Turkish hash, everything for a proper bash.
James Morrison:
Poor Bertha. Now Jackie's ex-partner in dance. He'd tossed her around on his last tour of France 'till she fractured a leg, now she walks with a limp. But she still works for Jack. She's his whore, he's her pimp.
Riportata da il
05/03/2025 alle ore 07:28
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