call it hell. It’s awful frozen dinners you cook in a box called à`microwave,” it’s sneakers that look like Frankenstein
shoes, it’s music that comes out of the radio sounding like crows being steamed alive in a pressure-cooker, it’s–
Well, it’s everything.
I want my life back, I want things the way they were, and I think I know how to make that happen.
You’re one sad, thieving bastard, Sam–may I still call you that?– and I feel sorry for you . . . but sorry only stretches
so far, because the operant word here is thieving. My original opinion on the subject hasn’t changed at all, you see–I
still don’t believe that the ability to create conveys the right to steal.
What are you doing right this minute, you thief? Eating dinner at that Petit Déjeuner restaurant you made up? Sleeping
beside some gorgeous honey with perfect no-sag breasts and murder up the sleeve of her negligee? Driving down to
Malibu with carefree abandon? Or just kicking back in the old office chair, enjoying your painless, odorless, shitless
life? What are you doing?
I’ve been teaching myself to write, that’s what I’ve been doing, and now that I’ve found my way in, I think I’ll get
better in a hurry. Already I can almost see you.
Tomorrow morning, Clyde and Peoria are going to go down to Blondie’s, which has
reopened
for business. This time
Peoria’s going to take Clyde up on that breakfast offer. That will be step two.
Yes, I can almost see you, Sam, and pretty soon I will. But I don’t think you’ll see me. Not until I step out from behind
my office door and wrap my hands around your throat.
This time nobody goes home.