by Chuck Palahniuk
Read an excerpt:
...stomping until the downstairs neighbor pounds the ceiling with his fist. Chapter 4 My second crib death assignment is in a concrete-block housing project on the edge of downtown, the deceased slumped in a high chair in the middle of the afternoon while the baby-sitter cried in the bedroom. The high chair was in the kitchen. Dirty dishes were piled in the sink. Back in the City Room, Duncan, my editor, asks, "Single or double sink?" Another detail about Duncan is, when he talks, he spits. Double, I tell him. Stainless steel. Separate hot and cold knobs, pistol-grip-style with porcelain handles. No spray nozzle. And Duncan says, "The model of refrigerator?" Little spits of his saliva flash in the office lights. Amana, I say. "They have a calendar?" Little touches of Duncan's spit spray my hand, my arm, the side of my face. The spit's cold from the air-conditioning. The calendar had a painting of an o[misprint for 30 letters] mill, I tell him, the waterwheel kind. Sent out by an...