Floridian landscapes surround our vacation shack. It's boggy and hot. A tall man in a black suit stands inside the threshold. I hold Beckett's hand and turn the lights down low. Gun shots pop off outside. Outside the window we see pickups trucks drive by, their beds filled with young gangsters holding machine guns, faces covered in bandanas. It's war. They are all over the city. I try to lock the door before a teenage boy rips through the house to attack what he believes he should.
I'm in Florida with my boxing trainer. There's a boot camp class on the beach. Demi Moore is one of the students. She has a thick Cuban accent and corn rows. Everyone is the class is excited by her presence. I tell them all not to get too carried away by fame. My trainer hugs me. He's proud of my recovery and squeezes my shoulders. I can tell he wants to fuck.
