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Show Anting Alone pa g e 196 Had he left Kiev and scurried so quickly, so willingly to cower behind his little-Jewboy-buddy-from-wayback because he was actually ashamed deep inside of the revelations made in that dossier? Sam wasn't ready to tackle that one just now. But one thing he did know for sure: he could not go through life a pussy like this. He was going to have to learn to stand up and kick ass and scream like a spoiled child and fight. Everybody else did. Why not him? Too proud or something? Like that time in the blues specialty bar in Chicago and/or Houston. It had felt so good, so right to ply his weight assertively. He was going to have to develop the animal part of him, the toothed, clawed, screaming part of him. All his life society had tried to convince him that it was unbecoming for a big man to be loud and physical. But, fuck that. He was going to learn to fight and buttfuck people out of prestige and social advantages and money and stuff like that. - What better way to start than to go find Bouncy and spit a sinewy logey right in his eye and have it out with him? Sam would either die or learn to kick ass. So he got off the bed and commenced to gird his mean fucking loins. He girded his nose, too. Put a new Ace bandage around his head, well-padded with half a roll of evil-smelling Charmin bumwad. And, as he girded the various parts of himself, he began to sing war-guy songs. Boisterously bucking his own courage up by chanting and singing like a red Comanche or some other such aboriginal type farting through a diggereedoo or something. He could only think of two appropriate songs. One was the theme from |
