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Show Anting Alone Page 248 drab sugar mama, even at this happiest of moments, was a strong indication that he must be getting awfully tired of living at close quarters with the little turd. She was an idiot, a drooling Down's syndrome baby, a burden. "How long should a published writer be expected to put up with a drooling baby?" Sam said aloud - though not intending to. Shanny left his cot and stormed once again back to her half of the trailer. "I was just trying to 'gratulate," she whined. She belonged exactly back in the place he'd first plucked her out of. Her milieu was the coed dorm: one great big seventh-floor bareassed rotten navel orange fight after another, featuring such late-adolescent grotesques as "Garp, Jr.," the shy, emotionally disturbed freshman boy who, when the fluorescent lights are dimmed.and a sufficient number of dormies begin chanting the phrase flaming mouse, oh flaming mouse, pulls out his small genitals and sets them on fire with lighter fluid for all to admire. Sam had steeled himself to penetrate just such a multi-level inferno to deliver his French/Irish A-plus girl from its pastel confines. He'd come to those coed dorms, faced the prospect of the death of Western Civilization, in order to help Shanny move out. This was not long after he'd lost his spleen, so he'd come along more to supervise the job than to carry anything heavy, like, for example, her 400-pound Marantz stereo, which now grunted Kiss into his head so long and loud every afternoon that something inside his skull had gone all numb and tingly. All the mad naked hairless genital-flaming dorm children had pranced along behind Sam, and bounced oranges off the back of his head, and called him "Perfesser" in tones that did not show the proper amount of respect for a soon-to-be-published author. |