Voicemail. 4 a.m.

Hey. Me here, again. Listen, look. Remember when I called you a few hours earlier drunk? I'm even drunker. Gotta tell you, man... listen... here's the deal. Seriously. I know I've been drinking since five yesterday and all that happy horse shit, but I've been writing some of my best shit, I think. Maybe even comparable to Bill Shields. You know what I mean, fucker. Not saying I'm as good. You know what? Fuck you. Anyway, love you bro, and I wanted to call and tell you I've been re-reading your shit, and the jail book is fucking beautiful, but with Flotsam, you could've at least put a pimple on John Edmonds' ass. He's too perfect. No one fucking lives like that. Come on, dude. Hey, remember when you crashed at our pad in Long Beach and my old lady blew up at you in the kitchen? I was actually in bed laughing my ass off. Glad I'm on my own and that fuckin' bullshit's all behind me, holy fuck. But yeah, man, been writing a lot, back at it. Feels fucking great. Wanna come up there and hang with you mid-October, man. Alright. I should get my head down, I guess. Oh. Been reading your new shit, too. Glad to see your sentences haven't fuckin' lengthened with success. Don't go soft, motherfucker, hit them even harder. Love you, bro. Fuckin' neighbor next door is up and getting ready for work. You oughtta see this puke. Turtle face motherfucker. He doesn't like me. But that road goes both ways. Alright, night, fucker. Call me.