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Show Anting Alone Page 186 It was the voice of Stan Laurel. It said, "Ollie? What's the matter? Ollie?" It was a knowing sweet voice, flutey, and so soft that it seemed as though it could never have cut through Sam's chainsaw baritone, unless it had emanated from somewhere right inside of Sam's sinuses, or his ribcage, just under his sternum - it gave Sam sandpaper chills up and down his spine. It was Stanley Laurel's plaintive Sussex accent, his so sincere apologetic whimper - or a perfect imitation thereof - "Ollie? Ollie? What's the matter, Ollie?" There was a beautiful young black man, actually a boy, a homosexual, and he was lounging on a car in a parking lot nearby with some other gay people, and he was directing his queries across the lot at Sam, and his friends were being quietly, slyly amused in that silent, devastating, big city sophisticated fag way. The voice carried uncannily - Sam peered into the lurid night to get a better look - and suddenly right up in his face reared the Great Seven-Headed Harlot of Babylon with her bloody cup of abominations. Sam was the transparent person she was leering and hissing at now. This Whore of Babylon knew that Sam's extra decibels and words were emanating straight from the fat encasing his body. This Whore knew at a glance that something had just happened to fortify whatever vestigial masculinity might remain in the huge Oliver Hardyesque body, this unsexed body, this blustering, moralizing body. Sam was just Ollie now, and the Whore of Babylon-in-black-fag's-clothing was letting him know just that, taunting - What's the matter? Why all the misplaced sexual energy? Why |