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Show Acting Alone Page 83 among many that Sam had carefully scratched the top off of. A guaranteed infection, a souvenir to show his close friends, a means by which he could get a lot of money out of his mom for doctors and tetracycline. Sharks in front, panthers behind, and motherfucker motherfucker motherfucker, if any more stuff like this happened it would definitely be time to ditch the car, grab Shanny, and thumb back to Acapulco. And catch a jet home. A rickety spickliner jet with threadbare duct tape along its wings, where mottled Mexican girls with extra-Mexican dreams would feed Sam aerosoj. guacamole all the way back to his sinecure at the English department in the Bible belt. Somewhere in the middle of all this extravagant hispanic horror, an honest-to-Jesus horror sprang open-taloned on Sam's head in an especially intense psilicibin vision. It snapped him right out of his sunburnt complacency and sent him running down out of the jungle into town. . . He couldn't remember if he'd given the folks at Enema Digest his home or school address. He was so used to just putting "Engl. Dept." after his name that he might have told the distributors of Enema Digest (a new porno specialty mag that he wanted to subscribe to for purely clinical reasons) to send it to the English department. Plain brown wrapper - (God, I'll bet). Here was piquant evidence of how deeply the bourgeois "spirit" can be ingrained even in these aging decadents. Sam, who usually went to such |