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Show Why We Cry Butch and Fenn Stories 97 "Left this time." Roto lifts his left leg straight out. The bottom of his foot is black. Butch fastens the pliers on each side of his big toe. "Okay," Roto says. Butch seizes the pliers in both hands and squeezes, jumping a little with the effort. Roto screams, gripping the table as his mouth opens into a square hole as wide as a radio speaker. His teeth are checkered from all the licorice he eats. After four seconds, Butch drops the pliers on the floor, and they clatter under the table. Roto's mouth closes, but his eyes remain at full bulge for a second or two. When he closes them two tears squeeze out of each. As Butch picks up the pencil, a little dust, vibrated by the scream out of the unfinished ceiling, filters down upon us all. "That's five," Roto says happily, jumping onto the floor. He holds his hands out. "I ought to charge you!" Butch says, fishing in his pocket. He hands Roto a dime. "You've got no feelings." But Roto could care; he's running up the stairs with his cash, headed for the pharmacy and five boxes of Snaps. Butch writes for a while, scanning the page up and down with the pencil, and then he stands and throws the whole mess across the room into the fruit jars. A mason jar of chili sauce tips and crashes wetly behind the shelves. |