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Show Acting Alone Page 425 haired Mephistopheles to break into print. All of which, of course, since he wasn't writing a mass-murderer/suicide's posthumous crossover cat diet/kung-fu coffee table book, he could not straighten out today in his hour of need. Every impurity and soiling and ink-mark he happened to wipe on a piece of fifty percent rag bond squirmed like a centipede with incorrectness and artlessness. It was just punishment, he knew. The Poean Imp of the Perverse had returned to school him in the arithmetic of midwestern Protestant morality. And, though he didn't think anybody had noticed, Sam hadn't written a fucking word yet. When Sister Polycarpana wasn't visiting, Sam found that he did a lot of screaming. He paced the office and screamed into the speakerphone at the old man in that hoity-toity death chamber of his out across the new ravines. He screamed one-liners into the Sony microcassette recorder - presumably for transcription at a later date. He screamed in ever-hovering pain from his busted upper jaw, teeth, spleenstitches all feverish with dead pus. He screamed into the face and collapsed into the scented, androgynous arms of his very own personal G (with an emphasis on the G) P. Over and above his regular duties as a healer, the good doctor was so kind and trusting as to taste Sam's meals whenever the inevitable high-rise acrophobic paranoia overtook him up here among the police helicopters. - Am I to take it that you want me to eat a bit of your fondue, Mr. Edwine? says the Sony. - It's not 'fondue.' That's your asshole talking, philistine quack. It happens to be chili con queso. Considering the circumstances, Sam enjoyed a surprisingly amicable rela- |
