OCR Text |
Show Anting Alone Page 195 Chapter Twelve He'd left his dehumidifier on full-blast all this time. It was overflowing with yellowish, rank fluids sucked from the atmosphere down in this basement. A deadly electric puddle was forming around the appliance. "Weird contraption," Sam sneered down on it. "I never saw anything like you back home." He kicked the dehumidifier hard and sent water gushing all across the room, filling his typewriter, his guitar with essence of Kansan basement. He flopped on the bed. Soon the customary wolf-spider was stomping across his face. Sam could feel the hairs of its many legs on the tender skin of his nose. If hate-of-a-place were something that could be grabbed onto, it would be in the shape of a large, chipped, grey cinderbrick, and it would be pushing its way up from the pit of Sam's stomach into his throat. He was fresh out of Rolaids. Sam realized that he would not be rich soon after all. He'd be in this basement, or one like it, for a while yet - probably forever, if the truth were known. He'd allowed himself to be run out of Kiev penniless without so much as a whiff of a struggle. No mention had been made of the contract. Spikey wouldn't even let him borrow his Eb alto saxophone. Sam should've called his Dallas lawyer and sued every god damn hick's ass in sight - including Shannon's. (He almost choked on her name.) |