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Show Carlson Ferguson Lives lb takes my head in both hands and tilts it to the porch light. "Look at that." Fenn comes over and looks at my head. I reach up into my hair and feel the wetness. "Hold still," Butch says, tightening his grip, and plucking a section of hair right out of my head. He lets go and holds a three inch glass sliver in front of my face. "You've been stabbed." "Have I got one?" Fenn says, bending down to show his scalp. "Yours went clear through,,, Butch passes him and enters the smoke. "That's not really very funny, Butch," Fenn says, following me down into the basement. Downstairs, there is nothing to see. The wispy, iridescent smoke lingers everywhere, and Butch cannot make the lights work. We feel our way around until Fenn says, "Here it is, over here." Being blind, he's an ace in the dark. We join him at the television; it's still hot. Butch crawls around behind and strikes a match in the interior of the set. The flash reveals little: the cabinet is bombed out and fried; everything is black. Another match and Butch says: "He's gone! Ferguson's gone!" "But not forgotten," Fenn says. "Now, let's get some air and hit the pharmacy for a root beer before it closes." "Listen!" Butch hisses and we stand scared still. "What?" "Just listen." And there is a scampering behind me toward the |
