Pulp Fiction

You want more? You want some more of this shit? so he puts his weight to his elbow jammed under the jaw of the other one pinned there, panicked, panting, his back to the bricks. The others are loud and jeering and stand in a jackal circle a spitting-length away. The cold air is full of bird song. The sex—sheer sugar—of the flowering trees turns to powder against the skin, and cakes the sidewalks pale green, and packs the curbs. Far away a powerful siren cries. Someone is about to get his ass kicked. But now the cruel gang spots someone—okay, it’s me—who is writing this whole scene down. It’s so easy to surpass the limits of the powers of description.What are you looking at?