It was the kind of heat where people, quite suddenly and without the least warning, drop dead in front of you on the sidewalk. It was the kind of heat where cats' mating rituals become more ferocious and their shrieks sound human—desperate and final. It was the kind of heat where a dog looks at his owner's throat and imagines how much cooler than the heavy night the gushing blood would be upon his face...Oh fuck! Forget the homage to Raymond Chandler! I can't do this!
Too hot! Too fucking hot!
Skeeter is doing his impression of a lawn sprinkler—schvitzing all over everyone! Boo-Boo is panting and puffing and coughing from the smog!
They say three more days of this! Kill me! Kill me now!
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