That realization would have to be brought home to him.
Forcibly, if necessary.
Outside, the late August morning was bright and warm. Birds sang in the trees. And Greg felt his destiny was closer than ever. That was why he would be careful with this prime asshole. That was no long-haired bike-freak with a bad case of bowlegs and B.O.; this kid was a college boy, his hair was moderately long but squeaky clean, and he was George Harvey’s nephew. Not that George cared for him much (George had fought his way across Germany in 1945, and he had two words for these long-haired freaks, and those two words were not Happy Birthday), but he was blood. And George was a man to be reckoned with on the town council. See what you can do with him, George had told Greg when Greg informed him that Chief Wiggins had arrested his sister’s kid. But his eyes said, Don’t hurt him. He’s blood.
The kid was looking at Greg with lazy contempt. ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘Your Deputy Dawg took my shirt and I want it back. And you better understand something. If I don’t get it back, I’m going to have the American Civil Liberties Union down on your red neck.’
Greg got up, went to the steel-gray file cabinet opposite the soda machine, pulled out his keyring, selected a key, and opened the cabinet. From atop a pile of accident and traffic forms, he took a red T-shirt. He spread it open so the legend on it was clear: BABY
LET’S FUCK.
‘You were wearing this,’ Greg said in that same mild voice. ‘On the street.’
The kid rocked on the back legs of his chair and swigged some more Pepsi. The little indulgent smile playing around his mouth – almost a sneer – did not change. ‘That’s right,’
he said. ‘And I want it back. It’s my property.
Greg’s head began to ache. This smartass didn’t realize how easy it would be. The room was soundproofed, and there had been times when that soundproofing had muffled screams. No – he didn’t realize. He didn’t understand.
But keep your hand on it. Don’t go overboard. Don’t upset the applecart.
Easy to think. Usually easy to do. But sometimes, his temper – his temper got out of hand.
Greg reached into his pocket and pulled out his Bic lighter.
‘So you just go tell your gestapo’ chief and my fascist uncle that the First Amendment …’
He paused, eyes widening a little. ‘What are you … ? Hey! Hey!’
Taking no notice and at least outwardly calm, Greg struck a light. The Bic’s gas flame vroomed upward, and Greg lit the kid’s T-shirt on fire. It burned quite well, actually.
The front legs of the kid’s chair came down with a bang and he leaped toward Greg with his bottle of Pepsi still in his hand. The self-satisfied little smirk was gone, replaced with a look of wide-eyed shock and surprise – and the anger of a spoiled brat who has had everything his own way for too long.
No one ever called him runt, Greg Stillson thought, and his headache worsened. Oh, he was going to have to be careful.
‘Gimme that!’ the kid shouted. Greg was holding the shirt out, pinched together in two fingers at the neck, ready to drop it when it got too hot. ‘Gimme that, you asshole! That’s mine! That’s…’
Greg planted his hand in the middle of the kid’s bare chest and shoved him as hard as he could – which was hard indeed. The kid went flying across the room, the anger dissolving into total shock, and – at last – what Greg needed to see: fear.
He dropped the shirt on the tile floor, picked up the kid’s Pepsi, and poured what was left in the bottle onto the smouldering T-shirt. It hissed balefully.
The kid was getting up slowly, his back pressed against the wall. Greg caught his eyes with his own. The kid’s eyes were br6wn and very, very wide.
‘We’re going to reach an understanding,’ Greg said, and the words seemed distant to him, behind the sick thud in his head. ‘We’re going to have a little seminar right here in this back room about just who’s the asshole. you got my meaning? We’re gonna reach some conclusions. Isn’t that what you college boys like to do? Reach conclusions?’