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Show Acting Alone Page 42 nose. But God knows what perverted Bernard DeVotoesque thing it would be now, bashed clear over there by Sam's gore-filling ear. Well, Sam refocused his eyes slowly, thinking, with a very promising, writerly objectivity, "Listen bigboy. If you're going to get yourself into these ultimate kinds of situations, you should learn to like pain, like in the Clint Eastwood/orangutan movies." But Sam didn't like pain because it hurt. Sgt. Spikey was flexing spreadlegged over Sam in the Marine jiu-jitsu stance, looking like a stunted bantam rooster with a bent pipe cleaner jammed up its butt. Sam just relaxed back on the floor on his elbows, legs still up on the couch, spread wide open - a very pelvic and vulnerable position to be in. All along Sam had been aware of the physical superiority of this wiry little Marine, and had been flirting inside of himself with his own wilting desire to be vanquished, dominated, buttfucked (so to speak). "That's all right, you subhuman motherfucker," thought Sam. "I'll be back. Next time with a typewriter. And next time I'll remember to bring the contract, too." Sam later could've sworn to Christ on Palm Fronds that the former hostage told him, "I believe it's time for you to be movin on, pilgrim." |