| OCR Text |
Show Acting Alone Page 54 Nah. Not that schlemiel Axelrad. He'd probably blow himself up before he managed to do anything really famous. In any case, Sam was overdue to bring the boy a load of intoxicants - libations and offerings meant to appease Sam's ravenous conscience, which had been chronically inflamed ever since prepschool days when Sam and his other big husky goyische buddies had tormented the poor little Jew, driven him to his pitiful, solitary, self-consuming pyromania. This had taken place back in the seventies, back in Salt Lake City, over Sam's shoulder, out of the nuns' basement, up the hill, across the hip Coloradoan mountain tops, through a few insignificant high plateaus in the middle, and down on the far western slope. Sam vividly recalled one time in particular when he and his overgrown cronies had busted into "Axlegrease's" locker and found no plentiful Jew money nor pilfered, defiled, consecrated Hosts, but something even better: a pair of scrawny little Hayne's underpants with a big old chunky dark-brown hashmark smeared luxuriantly all up and down the crotch. After gym all the gentiles in the ritzy Episcopalian school had confronted Axlerad with these shorts, sadly, accusingly, and had laughed their asses off as the boy got his famous Look and explained that his pet cat had gotten hold of them that morning before school and - "No more," came her voice. "Huh?" Sam's eyes refocused on the Jesus photo on the laundry door. She had said No more. No more what? Had he been speaking his little blasphemies and anecdotes as well as thinking them? He supposed he had been. He'd |
