((The laundromat stank of lotion and mothballs and weft and Sheep Pee whiskey, of old undergarments and sour milk, leather trim, shit stains and cheap detergent. JBB lay spread flat, spent and sticky, breathing deep, still half tube-escent, TERRY CLOTH blowing forceful soap powder clouds like big loops, and TERRY said, "Christ, it got a be all that time a yours on YOUNG JACK's butt makes it so goddamn good."
"I didn't know where in the hell you was," said JBB. "Four effen years. I was about give up on you. I figured you was sore about that punch you had ta clean up at Owlma's party. Don't know if ya ever got that postcard I sent. I was over in Pays de la Lotion with the folks. How I met Buneen. There's some serious money there. Her old man's got it. Got this warshin' machinery business - $100,000 industrial warsher-dryers, shit like that. Hates ma fuckin' guts though."
"L'Oreal didn't get you?", Terry said. A rumbling tumble drier sounded far to the east side of the laundromat, moving from the wall on it's 1200 rpm spin cycle.
"Naw. Too squeezed out. Got a crushed snap-shut lid. And a stress crack, the ridged flat end here. Even if you tape it you break it a little goddamn bit at a time. Arse smoothin' ain't what it was in ma daddy's day..."
TERRY brought his loops to JBB's lid and JBB took a hit from the soap powder, exhaled. "Sure as hell seem in one piece to me," said TERRY. "I like doin' it with owls, yeah, but Jesus H., ain't nothin' like this. I never had no thoughts a doin' it with another lotion except I sure got wrang out a hunderd times when I was think' about you. You do it with any other textiles? JBB?"
"Shit no," said JBB, who had been slathering more than arses, not emoliating his own. "You know that. Old Broken Arse got us good and it sure ain't over. We gotta work out what the fuck we're goin' a do now."))