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Show Acting Alone Page 442 attempting self-annihilation in one way or another. Hands, now, in the amphetamine dream. Sam's hands, compulsively worrying a scab embedded in the silicone flesh of an IBM electronic 75, peeling the yellowed quick away in spirals around the never-healing hurt; the keys made of a mixture of Axelrad's and Sam's flesh that wilts strangely under someone's huge fingers, red with treachery's blood. The final, ultimate prepschool brutalization and betrayal of the little twitchy Axlegrease. Look, adolescent America, and snicker at the brown hashmarks on your favorite traitor/spy's tiny little Fruits of the Loom! "You've put me high up in hell, you fucking prick!" "How can that be, Sammy? Intelligence informs me that, from a child, you have always wanted to write professionally. Well, that's exactly what you are doing now. How can living out one's fondest desire be hell, Sammy?" Sam wakes. To sit up. To receive a little red wine from Sister Polycarpana. To scribble a languorous, medium-length sex scene in Hawaii: two boys snorkeling naked with or without girls on clear light windowpane in a shallow lagoon, phosphorescent fishes skimming along two wet erections, the smaller boy brimming to burst with all kinds of heavy-handed foreshadowings of arson and - something worse - "How can I do this? I can't say these private things!" "Yes you can. The boy is a sufferer. All his people are. Including your dead Elijah. Let the boy do what he does best: suffer. Go ahead and extrapolate the semi-true or even downright false homosexual things. Since they've styled themselves 'gays' and become just another sacred cow for the liberals, it's open season on them, at least among true Americans. You no |