'rent-a-cop'

[pynchonoid]

 Keith:
> I have to admit, being called a 'rent-a-cop' hurts.

Yes, this encounter has been extremely painful for me,
too. JollyRoger's penetrating insight and forceful
rhetoric has obliged me, almost against my will, to
re-evaluate my pathetic existence of quiet desperation
and self-deluding escape into the texts of Thomas
Pynchon and his bourgeois interpreters, and to admit
just how far astray I've gone, how far short of my
jollyrogersque youthful dreams I have fallen ... all
the King Cobra tall ones left unchugged, the crystal
meth unsmoked, all these unwasted brain cells yearning
to be set free...

[...] And Stencil sat dour and undrunk, in the Rusty
Spoon, while Slab's friend, another Catatonic
Expressionist, harangued him with the Great Betrayal,
told of the Dance of Death. While around them
something of the sort was in fact going on:  for here
was the Whole Sick Crew, was it not, linked by a
spectral chain and frolicking along over some moor or
other. Stencil thought of Mondaugen's story, The Crew
at Foppl's, saw here the same leprous pointillism of
orris root, weak jaws and blood-shot eyes, tongues and
backs of teeth stained purple by this morning's
homemade wine, lipstick which it seemed could be
peeled off intact, tossed to the earth to join a
stream of similar jetsam--the disembodied smiles or
pouts which might serve, perhaps, as spoor for next
generation's Crew . . . God. (V., 315, Perennial
Library edition)


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