Queer

“I’m not queer,” he thought. “I’m disembodied.”

Lee walked on, thinking, “What can I do? Take them back to my hotel? They are willing enough. For a few sucres …” He felt a killing hate for the stupid, ordinary, disapproving people who kept him from doing what he wanted to do. “Someday I am going to have things just like I want,” he said to himself. “And if any moralizing son of a bitch gives me any static, they will fish him out of the river.”

Murder is the national neurosis of Mexico.”