Debbie

Just did a life sentence (25 years, practically speaking) for killing a cop.

Is still a working and very active prostitute at 51.

Seems to be the de-facto pimp of her particular ring

For a small fee, will pleasure other 50-year-old women for the sake of a "rich" 50-year-old man.

Writes poetry, very much in the classical tradition with basic schemes of rhyme and meter. Her lines on how Timothy Mc'Veigh deserved the death penalty, because he murdered children, and children come from God; words can't describe. I went home and immediately burned my copy of the Aeneid. Everything that came before Wild Thang is nothing but diarehetic shit with a few flakes of children's glitter mixed in.

Knows eight languages. To be more precise, she knows a phrase or two from the various underclasses housed in the Nebraska State Pen, and there is intense debate over whether or not the differences between Pine Ridge Lakota and Rosebud Lakota constitute different languages or mere dialects. But I shall not dispute her claim, there isn't any more B.S. in it than when I bust out "Joi De Vive" as if it's part of my normal vocabulary.

Despite her inability to distinguish an English major from an English professor, Debbie seemed to realize that I am the Pope of the ghetto/university matrix; the only legitimate means of communication between the two worlds. "Street knowledge" is nothing but a well-developed theory of mind. If you had a five-minute glimpse of Debbie's powers of perception, you would be just as certain as I am about her perfectly admirable intelligence.

To love a city is to love her streets. If you don't love Debbie than you don't love Lincoln.

It's perfectly alright if you don't love Lincoln, but if I ever here you saying an ill word towards Debby it's the rope and the ball-gag and the back of my van for you.