Residents rock and roll. It was these wee-hour musical fugue states that got Leonard by, that allowed him to retain some infinitesimal sliver of his actual spirit.
Sissy and Snowdrop moaned intermittently from their back room, dry-heaving and well into the closing vise of withdrawal. Leonard stared at the wall behind the big Sankyo editor and Bolex titler as lilting strains of Brian Eno's "Discreet Music" washed over him. Leonard, for no estimable reason, thought: Wasn't it Eno who said that if variety is the spice of life, then monotony is the sauce? But—ug—sauce. It reminded Leonard that they were down to their last three cans of Giant-brand spaghetti, and he'd had to cut it to half-rations to begin with. Rocco never brought enough heroin or food, and more often than not, Leonard preferred to starve than to break down and consume more dog food. Coppola didn't eat dog food, Cimino didn't (though he would after he released Heaven's Gate ), so—
Why should I?
Eno ebbed out, nearly inaudibly, giving over to Lou Reed's Metal Machine Music. Then the commotion barged in, loud footfalls on the wood floors and—
"Oink, oink, oink—"
Did Lou Reed have pig noises on MMM ? Leonard didn't think so. He got up and went to the living room.
"Vinch needs a pig flick, kid," Rocco announced, and slapped a bag of heroin on the table. A pig flick. Leonard scarcely batted an eye, for by now he'd made several, and these were by far the most difficult from the managing standpoint—managing the animal, that is. Dogs, mules, horses—they were easy compared to the mammalian genus sus vittatus. They were feisty, sometimes downright vicious. At least Leonard had a modicum of an edge in that he'd helped raise pigs on his father's farm as a child.
"Sure," Leonard tried to enthuse to his boss. "No problem."
"And here's the star," Rocco announced. Scampering circles about the living room, and amid a cacophony of protesting chortles, was what looked to be about a 150-pound Chester, white with a few black splotches. Its hoofs ticked maddeningly on the wood floor as Knuckles let go of its leash. "Get in there, ya fuckin' pig!" he complained, and kicked the animal on its flank.
Rocco obliviously rubbed his crotch. "Shit, my dick's hard," he announced. "I'm gonna fuck me one of them dirty bitches. Kid, go help Knuckles bring in the food."
Thank the fates, Leonard thought through a sigh. Food. His gut ached as he followed the gargantuan Knuckles out to the Deville. "Nice night, huh, Mr. Knuckles?" Leonard offered a cordiality. Knuckles unlocked the trunk, let it bob open. "Shaddap," he said, and pointed to the grocery bag. Leonard's lips pursed. Only one bag, he considered. Usually they brought two: one for dog food, one for people food.
Hmm.
"Take the bag in the house, then get your ass back out here and clean the pig shit outa the backseat," Knuckles said.
Leonard froze for part of a moment. It was not easy being here in the first place. Nor was it easy existing in a near-constant state of blood-ketosis only because these cheap-suited assholes were too incompetent to bring enough food. It was not easy making animal movies, nor was it easy keeping two clinical heroin addicts alive. And now— now —here was this cement-for-brains Mafioso thug ordering him to clean pig shit out of the car. Leonard's thoughts churned, and something inside his spirit snapped, and at the conclusion of that moment he came very close to replying: Fuck you, you dago moron whop motherfucker.
But of course he didn't actually say it, he thought it. To actually say it would have been extremely inadvisable. This, after all, was the man who had removed Leonard's left testicle, and they didn't call him Knuckles for nothing. Nevertheless, as Leonard's better judgement revisited him, he wilted.
I won't tell this guy off because I'm afraid. Because I don't have the courage. I'm a weakling, a coward...
Knuckles slapped Leonard in the back of the head. "Ya hear