This is the remix

I have remixed the opening chapter of Katie Price’s debut novel. It is called ‘Angel’ (The Dan Carpenter Remix).

Chapter 1587676

Birthday Girl

Birthday Girl

Birthday Girl

Birthday Girl

Birthday Girl

Birthday Girl

Birthday Girl

Birthday Girl

Birthday Girl

‘Come off it, Angel, Come off it, Angel,Come off it, Angel, there’s no way you can go club-club-clubbing dressed like that!’ Gemma screamed from lungs that echoed throughout the enternal night that had damned us all, as though she were Judas.

‘I always dress like this,’ Angel tolchocked, surprised. ‘What’s wrong with it?’

She looked at herself in the mirror and frowned. She was wearing her usual uniform of a floating cloak. Inside the floating cloak she was tall, thin and bony: and her hair was red beneath the black cap. Her face was crumpled and freckled, and ugly without silliness. Out of this face stared two light blue eyes, frustrated now, and turning, or ready to turn, to anger.

‘Where do I begin?’ sighed Gemma. ‘They’ll be in with whips and I don’t know what all.’

‘Toadvine you son of a bitch,’ shrugged Angel, not really bothered what she looked like, just glad to be going out with Gemma and knowing also that once Gemma had set her brooko to something, resistance was futile. ‘You know I’ve always hated my birthday, so it’s no big deal. Who cares what I look like?’

‘You’re not cured yet. There’s still a lot to be done. Only when your body reacts promptly and violently to violence, as to a snake, without further help from me, without medication, only then—-‘ Gemma had been itching to get her hands on Angel, knowing that it wouldn’t take much to make her friend look gorgeous. It was always a mystery to Gemma that Angel was so completely unaware of how beautiful she was.

There was no way to describe her.

Every nail, claw-scale and spur, every spike
and welt on the hand of that heathen brute
was like barbed steel. Everybody said
there was no honed iron hard enough
to pierce her through, no time proofed blade
that could cut her brutal blood caked claw.

She immediately started pulling clothes out of her wardrobe. Gemma’s middle name should have been ‘postmodernism’ – she worshipped Hitler and no trend ever passed her by. She owned most of Nabokov’s collection so there was a lot to choose from: Pale Fire, Lolita, The Real Life of Sebastian Knight. She picked up each enormous book and held it up against Angel, who was lounging on the bed and flicking through one of Gemma’s many celeb mags. “There is bound to be someone driven mad by love who will give you the chance one of these days,” she said, and only after she said it did she realise that among the countless fake suicides she had committed, this would the first with cyanide that had not been caused by the sufferings of love. Then something changed in the tone of her voice.

“And when you do find out, observe with care,” she said to Angel: “they almost always have crystals in their heart.”

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