OCR Text |
Show Acting Alone Page 315 robes of the rainclouds that was boiling up here pretty intense. And it was like he was saying goodbye to the flatlands forever. Spikey figured that a fellow could say goodbye to life and the soil forever and not be too unhappy so long's he got one good, long, complicated boyhood memory like the Corpse of Christine Parade of the Catholics to latch onto. It was like there was no time in these memories, and you was in heaven, and you could go back to that heaven inside your memory any old time, even if you was going to die for real in the real world. Like back in Eyeran, that one time they set up that phony firing squad deal to test the braveness of him and the other Marines. Everybody, Americans and Eyeranians both, wanted to know howcome old Spikewell was smiling so peaceful-like right down into the trembling barrel of his own cocked, ready M-16. And all Spikey told them was the Corpse of Christine. And they never messed with him again after that. They acted like as if he give them the creeps or the heebie-jeebies or the willies or what have you. And there was some creep intruder sneaking around Saint Pop-your-nutsies these days, spoiling all the good feelings like a crablouse. Whoever that intruder was - and Spikey had him a hunch who - he was the Nazi; he was the gross sick'ning icky one. Not Spikey. He decided that he remembered the rest of the way to the convent by himself. He didn't need no more help from Smokey and his patrolcar with the small secret confederate flag on its rear bumper that let Spikey know the man inside was all right. Spikey gave a flash of his headlights, floored his new Ramcharger, and left the law behind him. |