271 lines
14 KiB
Plaintext
271 lines
14 KiB
Plaintext
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ÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ
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ݱ22 May 88±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±_ROR_-_ALUCARD_±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±Ý Þ°
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Ý Ý A Þ°
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Ý "Cain Rose UP" Ý Þ°
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Ý Story by Stephen King A ßßßßß°
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Ý Tfile Þ°
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Ý Written By: Doctor Murdock Distribution Þ°
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ÜÜÜÜÜ | | Centere Þ°
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Ý Þ |xxx| - RoR - Þ°
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Ý A Þ_____________|___|___________________________________________________Þ°
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Ý Þ Shawn-Da-Lay Boy Productions, Inc.úúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúÞ°
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ÝÜÜÜÞÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÞ°
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°°°The°Pirates'°Hollow°-°415/236/2371°°The°Electric°Pub°-°415/236/4380°°°°
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CAIN ROSE UP
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Author: Stephen King
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Typed by: Doctor Murdock
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=============================================================
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Garrish walked out of the bright May sunshine and into the
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coolness of the dorm. It took his eyes a moment to adjust, and at
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first Harry the Beaver was just a bodiless voice from the shadows.
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"It was a bitch, wasn't it?" the Beaver asked. "Wasn't that one a
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really truly bitch?"
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"Yes," Garrish said. "It was tough."
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Now his eyes pulled in the Beaver. He was rubbing a hand across
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the pimples on his forehead and sweating under his eyes. He was
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wearing sandals and a 69 T-Shirt with a button on the front that said
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Howdy Doody was a pervert. The Beavers huge buck teeth loomed in the
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gloom.
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"I was gonna drop it in January," the Beaver said. "I kept
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telling myself to do it while there was still time. And then add-
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drop was over and it was either go for it or pick up an incomplete.
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I think, Curt. Honest to God."
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The housemother stood in the corner by the mailboxes. She was an
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extremely tall woman who looked vaguely like Rudulph Valentino. She
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was trying to push a slip strap back up with one hand while she
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tacked up a dorm sign-out sheet with the other.
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"Tough," Garrish repeated.
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"I wanted to bag a few off you but I didn't dare, honest to God,
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that guy's got eyes like an eagle. You think you got you A all
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right?"
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"I guess maybe I flunked," Garrish said.
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The Beaver gaped. "You think you FLUNKED? You think you---"
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"I'm going to go take a shower, okay?"
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"Yeah, sure, Curt. Sure. Was that you last test?"
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"Yes," Garrish said. "That was my last test."
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Garrish crossed the lobby and pushed through the doors and began
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to climb. The stairwell smelled like an athletic supporter. Same
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old stairs. His room was on the fifth floor.
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Quinn and that other idiot from three, the one with the hairy
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legs, piled by him, tossing a softball back and forth. A little
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fellow wearing horned rimmed glasses and valiantly struggling goatee
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passed him between four and five, holding a calculus book in his
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chest like a Bible, his lips moving in a rosary of logarithms. His
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eyes were blank as blackboards.
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Garrish paused and looked after him, wondering if he wouldn't be
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better off dead, but the little fellow was now only a bobbing,
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disappearing shadow on the wall. It bobbed once more and was gone.
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Garrish climbed to five and walked down the hall to his room. Pig
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Pen had left two days ago. Four finals in three days, wham bam and
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thank-ya-ma'am. Pig Pen knew how to arrange things. He had left
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only his pin-ups, two dirty mismatched sweat socks, and a ceramic
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parody of Rodin's THINKER perched on a toilet seat.
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Garrish put his key in the lock and turned it.
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"Curt! Hey, Curt!"
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Rollins, the asinine floor counselor who had just sent Jimmy Brody
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up to visit the Dean of Men for a drinking offense, was coming down
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the hall and waving at him. He was tall, well built, crewcut,
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symmetrical. He looked varnished.
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"You all done?" Rollins asked.
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"Yeah."
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"Don't forget to sweep the floor of the room and fill out the
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damage report, okay?"
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"Yeah."
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"I slid a damage report under your door last Thursday, didn't I?"
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"Yeah."
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"If I'm not in my room, just slide the damage report and the key
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under the door."
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"Okay."
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Rollins seized his hand and shook it twice, fast, pumppump.
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Rollins palm was dry, the skin grainy. Shaking hands with Rollins
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was like shaking hand with a fistful of salt.
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"Have yourself a good summer, m'man."
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"Right."
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"Don't work too hard."
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"No."
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"Use it but don't abuse it."
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"I will and I won't"
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Rollins look momentarily puzzled and then he laughed. "Take care,
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now." He slapped Garrish's shoulder and then walked back down the
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hall, pausing once to tell Ron Frane to turn down his stereo.
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Garrish could see Rollins lying dead in a ditch with maggots in his
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eyes. Rollins wouldn't care. Neither would the maggots. You either
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ate the world or the world ate you and it was okay either way.
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Garrish stood thoughtfully, watching until Rollins was out of
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sight, and then he let himself into his room.
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With Pig Pens cyclonic clutter gone it looked barren and sterile.
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The swirled, heaped, drifted pile that had been Pig Pens bed was
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stripped down to the bare---if slightly comestained---mattress pad.
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Two Playboy gatefolds look down at him with frozen two-dimensional
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come-ons.
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Not much changed in Garrish's half of the room, which had always
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been barracks neat. You could drop a quarter on the top blanket of
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Garrish's bed and it would bounce. All that neat had gotten on
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Piggy's nerves. He was an English major with a fine turn of phrase.
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He called Garrish a pigeonholer. The only thing on the wall above
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Garrish's bed was a huge blow-up of Humphrey Bogart that he had
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gotten in the college bookstore. Bogie had an automatic pistol in
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each hand and was wearing suspenders. Piggy said pistols and braces
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were impotency symbols. Garrish doubted if Bogie had been impotent,
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although he had never read anything about him.
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He went to the closet door, unlocked it, and brought out the big
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walnut stocked .352 Magnum that his father, a Methodist minister, had
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bought him for Christmas. He had bought the telescopic sight himself
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last March.
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You weren't supposed to have guns in your room, not even hunting
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rifles, but it hadn't been hard. He had signed it out of the
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university gun storage room the day before with a forged withdrawl
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slip. He put it in his waterproof leather scabbard, and left it in
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the woods behind the football field. Then, this morning around three
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a.m. he just went out and got it and brought it upstairs through the
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sleeping corridors.
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He sat down on the bed with the gun across his knees and wept a
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little bit. The THINKER on the toilet seat was looking at him.
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Garrish put the gun on his bed, crossed the room, and slapped it off
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Piggy's table onto the floor, where it shattered. There was a knock
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at the door.
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Garrish put the rifle under his bed. "Come in."
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It was Baily, standing there in his skivies. There was a puff of
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lint in his bellybutton. There was no future for Baily. Baily would
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marry a stupid girl and they would have stupid kids. Later on he
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would die of cancer or maybe renal failure.
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"How was the chem final, Curt?"
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"All right."
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"I just wondered if I could borrow your notes. I've got it
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tomorrow."
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"I burned them with my trash this morning."
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"Oh. Hey, Jesus! Did Piggy go and do that?" He pointed at the
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remains of the THINKER.
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"I guess so."
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Why did he want to go and do that? I liked that thing. I was
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going to buy it off him." Baily had sharp, ratty little features.
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His skivies were thready and saggy-seated. Garrish could see exactly
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how he would look, dying of emphysema or something in an oxygen tent.
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How he would look yellow. I could help you, Garrish thought.
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"You think he'd mind if I scoffed up those pinups?"
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"I guess not."
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"Okay." Baily crossed the room, stepping his bare feet gingerly
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over the pottery shards, and untacked the Playmates. "That picture
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of Bogie is really sharp, too. No tits, but, hey! You know?" Baily
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peered at Garrish to see if Garrish would smile. When Garrish did
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not, he said, "I don't suppose you plan on throwing it away, or
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anything?"
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"No. I was just getting ready to take a shower."
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"Okay. Have a good summer if I don't see you again, Curt."
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"Thanks."
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Baily went back to the door, the seat of his skivies flapping. He
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paused at the door. "Another four-points this semester, Curt?"
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"At least."
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"Good deal. See you next year."
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He went out and closed the door. Garrish sat on the bed for a
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little while, then took the gun out, stripped it, and cleaned it. He
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put the muzzle to his eye and looked at the tinny circle of light at
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the far end. The barrel was clean. He reintegrated the gun.
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In the third drawer of his bureau were three heavy boxes of
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Winchester ammunition. He laid these on the windowsill. He pulled
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the blinds up.
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The mall was bright and green, peppered with strolling students.
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Quinn and his idiot friend had gotten up a raggle taggle softball
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game. The scurried back and forth like cripple ants escaping a
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broken burrow.
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"Let me tell you something," Garrish told Bogie. "God got mad at
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Cain because Cain had an idea God was a vegetarian. His brother knew
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better. God made the world in His image, and if you don't eat the
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world, the world eats you. So Cain says to his brother, 'Why didn't
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you tell me?' And his brother says, 'Why didn't you listen?' And Cain
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says, 'Okay, I'm listening now.' So he waxes his brother and says,
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'Hey God! You want meat? Here it is! You want roast or ribs or
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Abelburgers or what?' And God told him to put on his boogie shoes.
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So...what do you think?"
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No reply from Bogie.
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Garrish put the window up and rested his elbows on the ledge, not
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letting the barrel of the .352 project out into the sunlight. He
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looked into the sight.
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He was centered on Carlton Memorial women's dormitory across the
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mall. Carlton was more popularly known as the dog kennels. He put
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the crosshairs on a big Ford wagon. A blonde coed in jeans and a
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blue shell top was talking to her mother while her father, red-faced
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and balding, loaded suitcases in the back.
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Someone knocked on the door.
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Garrish waited.
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The knock came again.
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"Curt? I'll give you half a rock for that Bogart poster."
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Baily.
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Garrish said nothing. The girl and her mother were laughing at
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something, not knowing there were microbes in their intestines,
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feeding, dividing, multiplying. The girls father joined them and
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they stood in the sunlight together, a family portrait in the
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crosshairs.
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"Damn it all," Baily said. His feet padded down the hall.
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Garrish squeezed the trigger.
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The gun kicked hard against his shoulder, the good, padded kick
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you get when you have seated the gun in exactly the right place. The
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smiling girls blonde head sheared itself away.
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Her mother went on smiling for a moment, and then her hand went to
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her mouth. She screamed through her hand. Garrish shot through it.
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Hand and head disappeared in a red spray. The man who had been
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loading the suitcases broke into a lumbering run.
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Garrish tracked him and shot him in the back. He raised his head,
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looked out of the sight for a moment. Quinn was holding the softball
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and looking at the blonde girls brains, which were splattered on the
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NO PARKING sign behind her prone body. Quinn didn't move. All
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across the mall people stood frozen, like children engaged in a game
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of statues.
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Somebody pounded on the door, the rattled the handle. Baily
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again. "Curt? You all right, Curt? I think somebody's---"
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"Good drink, good meat, good God, let's eat!" Garrish exclaimed,
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and shot at Quinn. He pulled instead of squeezing and the shot went
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wide. Quinn was running. No problem. The second shot took Quinn in
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the neck and he flew maybe twenty feet.
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"CURT GARRISH IS KILLING HIMSELF!" Baily was screaming.
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"ROLLINS! ROLLINS! COME QUICK!"
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His footsteps faded down the hall.
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Now they were starting to run. Garrish could hear them screaming.
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Garrish could hear the faint smack-smack sound of their shoes on the
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walks.
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He looked up at Bogie. Bogie held his two guns and looked beyond
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him. He looked at the shattered remnants of Piggy's THINKER and
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wondered what Piggy was doing today, if he was sleeping or watching
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TV or eating some great big wonderful meal. Eat the world, Piggy,
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Garrish thought. You gulp that sucker right down.
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"Garrish!" It was Rollins now, pounding on the door. "Open up,
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Garrish!"
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"It's locked," Baily panted. "He looked lousy, he killed himself,
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I know it."
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Garrish pushed the muzzle out of the window again. A boy in a
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madras shirt was crouched down behind a bush, scanning the dormitory
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windows with desperate intensity. He wanted to run for it, Garrish
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saw, but his legs were frozen.
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"Good God, let's eat," Garrish murmured, and began to pull the
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trigger again.
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X-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-X
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Another file downloaded from: The NIRVANAnet(tm) Seven
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& the Temple of the Screaming Electron Taipan Enigma 510/935-5845
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Burn This Flag Zardoz 408/363-9766
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realitycheck Poindexter Fortran 510/527-1662
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Lies Unlimited Mick Freen 801/278-2699
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The New Dork Sublime Biffnix 415/864-DORK
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The Shrine Rif Raf 206/794-6674
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Planet Mirth Simon Jester 510/786-6560
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"Raw Data for Raw Nerves"
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