Looks as though it was hand painted, probably by the old broad Millie Millwood, he thought. Yeah, Johnny had seen those hand-painted doors before, in Provence. These old boho types always liked to think of themselves not just as Americans but as “citizens of the world.” Boy, that just pissed Johnny off. What the hell was wrong with America? Not a goddamned thing. Where else could a guy like him flourish like he did? He loved his country and he hated those old boho assholes who ran around talking about cheese and wine and fucking baguettes! Oh, no, a loaf of Wonder Bread wasn’t good enough for them. They had to eat a freaking baguette. Fags! And what was wrong with French’s mustard? Not a goddamned thing, but the Martys and Millies of the world had to eat Grey Poupon, and special mustards made with some kind of rare fucking mustard seed that probably came from Arle and was pissed on by van Gogh or something. Well, fuck them. Fuck all of them. Asswipes. He rang the doorbell, waited, and seconds later Marty let him in.
