This and the previous chapter were fun because something I've always enjoyed, as an actor and writer and director, is trying to catch the rhythms of speech of individuals, and I got to write in several voices that were fun:
They were all upset because, when he’d gone up to the convention tonight, he’d left the eleven mostly-headless, mostly-drained-of-blood bodies there in the meat locker, merely calling the concierge’s desk and telling them to have the mess cleaned up by the time he got back.
For the record, let me say, I was once in love with a Republican myself. And I did eat her brain. But I faced up to the fact, later, that it was a bad thing, and in a painfully necessary way, I explained to everyone that it was entirely her fault.