Drapes and Squares were like water and oil. Never mixing but somehow always found together. Crybaby Walker had a strange infatuation with square girls who guarded themselves all prissy and proper, something of it to be a trophy to him when he finally got them to crumble at his will.

He stood at Turkey Pointe, gazing up a square girl who was the picture of square.

“You sure are a pretty little square.” His voice held a soft twang as his cigarette hung off his bottom lip.