nobody leaves without singing the blues.

I am currently reading Low Town by Daniel Polansky, which is what happens when you take a typical noir/pulp PI novel and stick it in a medieval fantasy setting. There’s lots of great moments:

"I sipped my bubbly and tried to remember why I hated these people. It was hard going—they were beautiful and seemed to be having a great deal of fun, and I struggled to maintain class resentment amid the laughter and bright colors…. Among all the gild and glitter, the figure in the corner stuck out like a broken thumb on a manicured hand."

Or:

"A lot of men affect hardness, fortifying themselves with dreams of their potential menace like it was sack wine. It was something of a local pastime in Low Town, rent boys and bumblefucks leaning against crumbling brick walls, convincing one another that they were deadlier than an untreated wound…. There are some things a man can’t fake, and lethality is one of them."

But then I got to:

"His mask was carved into a narrow beak, like a finch’s…"

have u ever

seen a

finch

but the book is pretty amazing so I can forgive this bird-related transgression