My own private Chicago

In my room I strip down to my underwear and look in the mirror. Hair's getting long, I think. Needs some work, I think. I cut some curls off my head with a pair of nail scissors. Better.

I love hotels. I love all the free stuff. Well, free enough. I find a small pot of boot-polish and paint two stripes across my face. D'ya feel lucky, punk? War-paint is important. I'd met an American-Indian in Montana who'd taught me all about native make-up. He was sipping water, refused to let me buy him a drink. Indians don't take well to alcohol, he'd told me. It's killing us all, slowly but surely. Oh. Well, maybe I have a little bit of Indian in me, then. Well do ya, punk? I walked into a bar; I drank a whiskey; I walked back out and puked it all over the sidewalk like a girl. I like this boot-polish, though. You talkin' to me?

I pull on my boots. Knee-high cowboy boots, for ridin' in. I like how they look with the stripes on my cheeks and the scar on my chin. Room service! Oh, I love hotels. Your martini, ma'am, and the cutlery you asked for. Thanks, help yourself to a twenty dollar tip. I'll look much tougher once I've tied these forks to my ankles with string. Well do ya, do ya punk? They're just like real spurs — if you squint.

It's late. It's late and tomorrow I'll take a sleeper train to Tennessee. Headin' down south, y'all! Down to Memphis where nobody knows my name. Fuck New York. Climb up off the floor, up onto this king-size bed. It's late, cowgirl, I think. Time to pull your boots off, get yourself some rest. You talkin' to me?

I don't see anyone else here, kid.