Well Robert settled down in the Valley and hung his wild years on a nail that he drove through his wife's forehead. He sold used office furniture out there on San Fernando Road and assumed a $30,000 loan at 15¼% and put down payment on a little two bedroom place. His wife was a spent piece of used jet trash, made good Bloody Marys, kept her mouth shut most of the time, had a little Chihuahua named Carlos that had some kind of skin disease and was totally blind. They had a thoroughly modern kitchen, self-cleaning oven (the whole bit). Robert drove a little sedan; they were so happy.
One night Robert was on his way home from work, stopped at the liquor store, picked up a couple Mickey's Big Mouths, drank 'em in the car on his way to the Shell station. He got a gallon of gas in a can, drove home, doused everything in the house, torched it, parked across the street, laughing, watching it burn, all Halloween-orange and chimney-red. Then Robert put on a top forty station, got on the Hollywood Freeway and headed north.
Never could stand that dog.