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Show Acting Alone pa g e 27 for himself one way or another. But Sam never did - partly out of loyalty to his sad little homesick Persian pal and employer, and partly because he reckoned that the FBI or the CIA were probably supplying the mysterious machineguns in the first place. What effect would this hideous ostrich book have on business for Mustafa? Would some of the former synagogue's beautiful windows be broken out by Mormon rocks or even bombs during happy hour? Would the local Gulf dealer make Mustafa's chauffeur wait an inordinately long time before filling up the limo and checking the oil and polishing up all bright and shiny the vanity plates that whimsically read: FORTY THIEVES? Sam didn't care. Or, he couldn't afford to let himself care. Just as long as he broke into the publishing world some kind of way, the world of immortality. All the book publishers were subsidiaries of Gulf Oil now, and it required an act of flagrant, irresponsible whoredom to capture their Hollywood-rabid attention. So to hell with Mustafa and Mohammed and the Muslims. Let them be cannibalized by the readers of Spikey's hagiography. Let them be chased naked down the street and lynched and buttfucked because they'd had the audacity to try to take back some of the things stolen from them. It was Sam's only way to bring his creativity to birth, to become a writer. "I am ready, set, and primed to do what Freud identified as the alternative to entering the fully-adult genital phase. I'm ready to force the world to accept me on my own anal/narcissistic terms," Sam told himself. "So I'd better get me that book contract pronto." Dr. Abraham, grave, white-bearded old esthete, would puke at this, |
