To be fair, the rumors1 about ole Mr Deutschman didn't say he'd actually dicked any schoolgirls. Probably just touched them and shit, you know. Real slime though, don't get me wrong. He used to be a school principal or something, all righteous and upstanding, back in the days before they'd bust2 you for that type of thing. Maybe even before talk shows, back when you'd just get ostracized3 by word of mouth. He probably used to get his hair cut at the fancy unisex on Gurie Street, with the coffee machine and all. But not anymore. Now he slinks through the valley behind the abattoir4, to the meatworks barber shoppe. Yeah, the meatworks has its own barber on Saturdays, It's just ole Mr Deutschman and me here this morning. And Mom.
'Well don't listen to Vernon, the unisex usually takes off a lot.'
Her head-scarf and shades supposedly make her invisible. The invisible twitching5 woman. Me, I wear the reddest T-shirt you ever saw, like a goddam six-year-old or something. I didn't want to wear it. She controls what you wear by keeping everything else damp in the laundry.
'Well go ahead, sir, it'll only grow back.'
'Hell, Ma …'
'Vernon I'm only trying to help you out. We'll have to find you some decent shoes too.'
Sweat starts to pool in my ass7. The lights are off, just one ray glows sideways through the door onto these green tiles. The air reeks8 of flesh. Flies guard two historical barber chairs in the middle of the room; white leather turned brown, cracked and hardened to plastic. I check them for arm clamps. I'm in one, Deutschman is in the other; his hands creep around under his gown. He seems happy to wait. Then a whistle blows outside, and the meatworks' marching band assembles on the gravel9 in the yard. 'Braaap, barp, bap,' band practice starts. One majorette I see through the door is about eighty-thousand years ole, her buns smack10 the backs of her legs as she marches. My eyes flee to a TV in the corner of the room.
'Look, Vernon, he doesn't have arms or legs, but he's neatly11 groomed12. And he has a job, look - he even invests on the stock market.'
They ask the kid on TV what it feels like to be so gifted. He just shrugs13 and says, 'Isn't everybody?'
The barber mostly slashes15 mid-air; two halves of a fly hit the deck. 'Barry was here. Said there could be a drugs link.'
'A drug slink, yes,' says Mr Deutschman.
'A drugs link, or another firearm.'
'Another farm, uh-huh. I heard it was a panty cult16 - you hear it was a panty cult?'
On balance, today sucks. You don't want to be here if they find any drugs. So I'm here with two spliffs, and two acid pearls in my pocket; nasty gels, according to Taylor, like your mind would projectile-exit your nose if you took one. I tried to ditch them on the way down, but Fate was against me. Fate's always fucken against me these days.
Load my pack, and lope away is what I'll do; all crusty and lonely, like you see on TV. Ditch Taylor's dope, and lope away. More successfully than last night, with Lally and the world's media camped outside. I only got four steps away from my porch before they came a-sniffing. Now they think I take out the trash in my backpack. Last night was long, boy, long and shivery with ghosts and realizations17. Realizations that I have to act.
'Vaine's coming down with they dogs,' says the barber. 'I'll tell her we need a SWAT team, with some of they automatic guns, that rip the meat off offenders18' bodies, not any ole dogs.' Click, slash14; he evens up my skull19. I scan the floor for ears.
'Meat's better'n dogs,' says Deutschman.
'Sit still, Vern,' says Mom.
'I have stuff to do.'
'Well, Harris' store might take you on.'
'What?'
'For a job, you know - Seb Harris even bought himself a truck!'
'That ain't what I'm talking about. Anyway, Seb's dad just happens to own the whole store.'
'Well, you're the man of the house now, I'm counting on you to make good. All the boys I know have jobs, that's all.'
'Like which boys, Ma, like just who?'
'Well - Randy and Eric?'
'Randy and Eric are dead.'
'Vernon Gregory, I'm just saying if you want to prove you're all grown up it's about time you got wise to the way things work in this world. Be a man.'
'Yeah, right.'
'And don't you get smart either, in front of everybody. Don't let's end up like that other time after I found those underpants.' Deutschman's hand twitches20 under his gown.
'Damn, Momma!'
'Go ahead, cuss your mother!'
'I ain't cussing!'
'My God, if your father was here …'
'Here's Vaine,' says the barber. I spin out of the chair, ripping the gown off over my head.
'Well go ahead, Vernon - go right ahead and humiliate21 your mother, after all that's happened to me.'
Fuck her. I bang out through the screen into the sun. Chunks22 of a Smith County truck flash through the legs of the marching band. Martirio may be a fucken joke, but you don't mess with the boys from Smith County. Smith County has armored personnel carriers, for chrissakes. Trombones spit glare, horns throw back pictures of me puckering23, melting, shrinking into the bushes at the steep end of the compound.
Hot grasses heckle my face on the way up the hill; skeeterhawks twitch6 through the air, but dust is too bored to rise up. One cloud hangs in the sky, over my empty, desperate body. My ole lady won't run after me. She'll stay back, tell all my slime to the boys, so they can wear a knowing smile next time they see me. Underpants my ass. And there's no drugs link, is there fuck. Jesus never had the damn money. See Hysteriaville here? Science says there must be ten squillion brain cells in this town, but if you so much as belch24 before your twenty-first birthday they can only form two thoughts between them: you're fucken pregnant, or you're on drugs. Fuck it, I'm outta here. Life's simple when I'm angry. I know just what to do, and I fucken do it. Underpants my fucken ass.
I'll tell you a learning: knife-turners like my ole lady actually spend their waking hours connecting shit into a humongous web, just like spiders. It's true. They take every word in the fucken universe, and index it back to your knife. In the end it doesn't matter what words you say, you feel it on your blade. Like, 'Wow, see that car?' 'Well it's the same blue as that jacket you threw up on at the Christmas show, remember?' What I learned is that parents succeed by managing the database of your dumbness and your slime, ready for combat. They'll cut you down in a split fucken second, make no mistake; much quicker than you'd use the artillery25 you dream about. And I say, in idle moments, once the shine rubs off their kid - they start doing it just for fucken kicks.
I stop dead. Something crackles around the bend on the track. It's the red van, spinning a trail of fluff-balls down the hill. Like somebody with oldtimer's disease, who doesn't remember what's good for them, I glance at my T-shirt. 'Ping,' it jackrabbits to Lally. He stops with a crunch26, forcing down the electric window with the flat of his hand. Tappets mark time with my heart, tic, tic, tic.
'Big man!'
I wave, like I'm in the freezer section at the fucken Mini-Mart or something. I should drop the drugs where I stand, but the dogs are close by. They'd know. Anyway, I ain't that decisive in life, not with all this grief on board, not with my anger evaporated. It fucken slays27 me. Van Damme's your man if you want the drugs dropped right here.
Lally calls me over. 'See those cops? They came from your place - jump in.'
Ginseng clinks around the floor as we cut a fresh trail toward home.
'Where's the rest of your head?' Lally slicks down his eyebrows28 in the mirror. You can tell the mirror hasn't pointed29 at the road awhile.
'Don't ask,' I say.
'You going somewhere?'
'Surinam.'
He laughs. 'How'd you get down here? I didn't see a car this morning …'
'We walked.' I'm supposed to say Mom's car is in the shop. But it ain't in the shop. The car paid for the new rug in the living room, the one Brad wipes his fingers on.
'What do you think the cops want?'
'Search me.'
'Tch.' Lally shakes his head. 'Things won't get any easier, you know. Take my advice - I could cut a report by sundown, it could air by tonight - Vern? I think it's time to tell your story. Your real, true story.'
'Maybe,' I say, slouching low in the seat. I feel Lally watching me.
'You don't even have to appear, I can patch it together from clips of friends and family. Camera's loaded, big man. Just say the word.' I hear Lally's offer, but just sit wishing Marion Nuckles would tell his damn story. He knows I'm clean, he was there. I can't believe I get all the heat - me, who has family secrets to watch out for - while he lounges around in goddam silence. I mean, what's he holding back?
A wrong note from the meatworks' band coughs us onto Beulah Drive in a swirl30 of leaf tatters. A baby marketplace has grown around the pumpjack since I've been gone. One stall sells Martirio barbecue aprons31, just like Pam's. Next to it, some media men pay a buck33 a hit for some fudge from Houston. One of the fudge sellers gloomily puts on an apron32. The apron sellers gloomily munch34 fudge. My face goes Porked Monkey. It's the face for when life around you travels in fucken dog years, but you stay frozen still. For instance, a whole mall grows around the pumpjack, but I'm here with the same problems I went out with this morning. I just look down, herd35 ginseng with my foot.
'Take one,' says Lally.
'Say what?'
'Take some ginseng, keep your strength up.'
As he says it, I notice the ginseng is the same shade of piss as the acid pearls in my hand. Dogs would never smell through the ginseng. I reach down for a bottle, but Lally brakes to avoid a stray teddy under the Lechugas' willow36; I overbalance, the dope cigarettes fall from my hand.
Lally switches off the engine, looks at the joints37, picks one off the floor, sniffs38 it, and grins. Then he looks at me. 'Tch - you could've just said you didn't want to share.'
'Uh, they ain't mine actually.'
'Not for long, anyway,' he says, frowning into his mirror.
I spin around to see the Smith County truck nose onto Beulah Drive, a block behind us. Velcro fucken ant-farms seize my gut39.
'Here, give them to me,' says Lally. He lifts himself up, and stashes40 the joints through a tear in the seat.
'Thanks - I'll be right back.' I fly across our lawn, into the house, and up the hall to my room, where I pick the cap off the ginseng. I take Taylor's LSD pearls and poke41 them into the bottle. They blend right into the piss, and the cap replaces like new. I drop the bottle into the Nike box, next to my padlock key, and hide it back in my closet. As I stroll onto the porch, all nonchalant, cooled by a sweat of relief, I see Vaine Gurie, Mom, and a Smith County officer arrive in the truck. Air-conditioning blows their hair like seaweed underwater, except Mom's, which blows more like one of those tetchy anemone42 things. Lally sits quiet in the shade of the Lechugas' willow. I guess he turned out okay, ole Lally, in the end. 'A good egg,' as the once-talkative Mr Goddam Nuckles would say.
Fate suddenly plays its regular card. Leona's Eldorado sashays past the pumpjack, full of musty, dry wombs and deep, bitter wants. Mom withers43. The fucken timing44 of these ladies is astounding45, I have to say, like they have scandal radar46 or something. They foam47 out of the car like suds from a sitcom48 washing machine, except for Brad, who stays in back. He's eating a booger, you can tell. Betty Pritchard gets out and starts to strut49 around the lawn like a fucken chicken.
'I think I need the bathroom - I just can't be sure with this infection.'
Leona and George take the high ground by our willow. 'Hi, Doris,' they wave. I almost make it back into the house, but Vaine Gurie unfolds faster than you'd expect from the cab of the truck. 'Vernon Little, come down here please.'
'Another setback50, Doris?' asks Leona, hopefully.
'Well it's nothing, girls,' says Mom. 'There's some fudge inside.'
'We don't have long,' says Leona, 'they're coming to lay the sunken patio51 at three.'
'Well, I thought it was the people with my Special Edition,' says Mom, scuttling52 over the dirt. 'I saw the car, and thought the new fridge was here …'
'Ma?' I call. She doesn't hear.
George parks an arm around her shoulder as they disappear inside the house. 'Honey, of course they'll come after him if he insists on looking like that - that haircut's the pits.'
The screen clacks shut, Mom's voice trails away into the dark. 'Well I couldn't sway him, you know how boys are …'
'Vernon,' says Gurie. 'Let's go for a little ride.'
I search her face for signs of uncovered truth, imminent53 apology. None appear. 'Ma'am, I wasn't even there …'
'Is that right. Makes it difficult to explain the fingerprints54 we found then, doesn't it.'
Picture a Smith County Sheriff's truck with me inside, sitting quiet on a road between three wooden houses. Bugs55 chitter in the willows56, oblivious57. The mantis58 rattles59 behind market stalls made of kitchen tables sat in a patch of tall grass that laps the edge of Martirio and flows all the way to Austin. Then Brad Pritchard appears at my window; nose to the sky, finger pointed at his shoes.
'Air Maxes,' he states. 'New.'
He stands with his eyes shut, waiting for me to blow a fucken kiss, or break down weeping or something. Asshole.
I lift my leg to the window. 'Jordan New Jacks60.'
He squints61 momentarily before pointing at my Nikes. 'Old,' he explains patiently. Then he points at his. 'NEW.'
I point at his, 'Price of a Barbie Camper.' Then at mine, 'Price of a medium-range corporate62 jet.'
'Are not.'
'Are fucken too.'
'Enjoy jail.'
His shuffle63 across the lawn turns into a scamper64 up the porch steps. A single raised finger shines back at me through my own front doorway65, until the screen cracks shut in front of it. Then, just as the officers start the truck, the screen swings open again. My ole lady bursts out, and hurries down to the road.
'Vernon, I love you! Forget about before - even murderers are loved by their families, you know …'
'Heck, Ma, I ain't a murderer!'
'Well I know - it's just an example.'
Lally shoots me a stare from his van, motioning like a camera with his hands. 'Just say the word!' he yells.
Mom stands helpless in the road behind us, and parks her chin on her chest. Her lips prime up for tears. The pain of it ploughs me over, inside out. I spin to see Lally through the back window as he rushes to her, puts a hand to her shoulder. Her ole soggy head leans toward it. He slides his shoulder under to absorb her tears, then stands tall, and stares gravely at my truck disappearing.
I can't take it. I lunge across Gurie and holler back through her window with all the air in the fucken world: 'Do it, Lally - tell 'em the fucken truth.'
Jail is sour tonight. Dead like the air between your ass and your underwear when you're sitting down. A TV buzzes somewhere in the background; I listen out for a news-flash about my innocence66, but instead the weather report theme plays. I hate that fucken theme. Then a voice bangs down the corridor. Footsteps approach.
'Don't you let me find them burgers gone, I mean it. Sure, right, it's Dr Actions Diet Revolution now, huh. All your noise about Prettykins, and now - don't tell me - it's a fuckin burger diet, right? Sure, fuckin protein, uh-huh. What? Because there is no other news except your fuckin barn of an ass …'
The man stops outside my cell. Light through the grille outlines a fuck-you pout67 crowded with teeth. Barry E Gurie - Detention68 Executive, says the badge. He sees me awake, and presses the phone into his neck.
'You ain't pullin your rod in there are ya, Little? You ain't chokin your chicken all day and night, are ya?' He laughs this smutty laugh, like Miss goddam Universe just sucked his boy or something. Even at long range his breath hits you like a solid block, just slithers down your face leaving a trail of onion-relish and lard. What a disgusting human being, I swear. If this is how much of an asshole everybody's going to be, about such a devastating69 fucken issue, then I better get the hell out of town. Maybe even out of Texas. Just until they get the story straight. Nana's ain't even fucken far enough, the way folk are behaving right now.
Barry continues his rounds, lingering for the rest of the night down by the TV. I lay back onto the bunk70 in my cell, and drift into the important and scary business of my future. Remember that ole movie called Against All Odds71, where this babe has a beach-house in Mexico? That's where I can run. Mom can visit after things die down. There she is, sobbing72 with joy, ole spanky-cheeked Doris Little, who could be played by Kathy Bates, who was in that movie Misery73. Tears of pride at the excellent sanitation74, and at my decent, orderly life. See how it works? It's the future now, young Vernon has been vindicated75. Now he's buying her a clay donkey, or some of those salad utensils76 Mrs Lechuga makes such a big deal about. The salad utensil77 seller would say to me, 'You want the same kind Mrs Lechuga got, or you want the Deluxe78 edition?' There's a fucken point up Mrs Lechuga's ass. See? That's definitely my new plan. I like the food just fine, burritos, and cappuccinos and whatever. They say money's cheap down there, hell - I could really make good. Folk must live in those beach-houses, for real.
But the pessimist79 in me says, 'Kid, forget vacations, what yez need is a cake wid a fuckin bomb in it.' My pessimist has a New York accent, don't ask me why. I ignore it. The question of the babe needs thought; you never see guys running alone, admit it. Who to take is Taylor Figueroa. She's in Houston now, in college or something, on account of being older than me. But she's the fox to take. Moist air stirs me through the bars of my cage, and in my mind it becomes a shunt of hormone80 from the lip of her skirt. I'll take that girl to Mexico, see if I don't. Now that I'm grown up, now that I've been to jail and all. I wasn't close to her at school, even though we nearly made out once. I say nearly because, fucken typical of me, I had her on a plate and I let her go. You're just never taught when to be an asshole in life. There was this senior Party that I wasn't invited to, and Taylor was there, face as soft as panties, just her big wet eyes seeped81 out. She left the party and crashed on the back seat of a Buick in the Church parking lot, where I just happened to be with my bike. She was wasted. She called me over. Her voice was sticky like freshly bitten cake. Some drugs fell out of her clothes onto the ground by the car. I picked them up. She said to keep them for her, in case she passed out or whatever. I kept them too, you know it. Boy was she fucken bent82 though. She started saying my name, and writhing83 around the back seat of the car. Don't even ask me who drives a fucken Buick at our school, but she added some value to his back seat. I helped unpeel her shorts a little, 'So she could breathe' - her words, not mine - I didn't even know you could breathe from down there. Brown Wella Balsam hair licked her body all the way down to her buns, where gray cotton tangas peeped out; clefted heaven in workaday dew. She was wasted, but conscious.
So guess what your fucken hero did, take a shot. Vernon Gonad Little went into the party and sent her best friend out to mind her. I never got a finger to her panties, even though I was close enough to catch the lick-your-own-skin-and-sniff-it disease that wastes me today; fucken hauntings of hollows between elastic84 and thigh85, tang ablaze86 with cotton and apricot muffin, cream cheese and pee. But no, duh, I went inside. I even kind of strode in, like a TV doctor, all fucken mature. It fucken slays me, she was right there. I tried to look her up again, but Fate deployed87 the shutdown routine you get whenever you miss a ripe opportunity in a dumb way. A billion reasons she can't be located, and fucken blah, blah, blah. So much for Taylor Figueroa.
Tonight, though, my hand is her mouth. Every stroke of my boy brings her cotton closer, burrows88 vents89 for her fruit-air to escape and waste me. Mexican fruit-air, boy, if I have my way. As I abandon myself to the dream, muffled90 wisps of the TV-news fanfare91 travel the corridor like an infection. Then a prisoner snorts with laughter.
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rumors
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| n.传闻( rumor的名词复数 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷v.传闻( rumor的第三人称单数 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷 | |
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bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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ostracized
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| v.放逐( ostracize的过去式和过去分词 )；流放；摈弃；排斥 | |
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abattoir
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| n.屠宰场，角斗场 | |
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twitching
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| n.颤搐 | |
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twitch
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| v.急拉，抽动，痉挛，抽搐；n.扯，阵痛，痉挛 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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reeks
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| n.恶臭( reek的名词复数 )v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的第三人称单数 )；散发臭气；发出难闻的气味 (of sth)；明显带有（令人不快或生疑的跡象） | |
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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smack
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| vt.拍，打，掴；咂嘴；vi.含有…意味；n.拍 | |
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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groomed
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| v.照料或梳洗（马等）( groom的过去式和过去分词 )；使做好准备；训练；（给动物）擦洗 | |
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shrugs
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| n.耸肩（以表示冷淡，怀疑等）( shrug的名词复数 ) | |
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slash
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| vi.大幅度削减；vt.猛砍，尖锐抨击，大幅减少；n.猛砍，斜线，长切口，衣衩 | |
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slashes
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| n.（用刀等）砍( slash的名词复数 )；（长而窄的）伤口；斜杠；撒尿v.挥砍( slash的第三人称单数 )；鞭打；割破；削减 | |
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cult
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| n.异教，邪教；时尚，狂热的崇拜 | |
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realizations
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| 认识，领会( realization的名词复数 )； 实现 | |
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offenders
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| n.冒犯者( offender的名词复数 )；犯规者；罪犯；妨害…的人（或事物） | |
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skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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twitches
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| n.（使）抽动， （使）颤动， （使）抽搐( twitch的名词复数 ) | |
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humiliate
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| v.使羞辱，使丢脸[同]disgrace | |
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chunks
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| 厚厚的一块( chunk的名词复数 )； （某物）相当大的数量或部分 | |
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puckering
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| v.（使某物）起褶子或皱纹( pucker的现在分词 )；小褶纹；小褶皱 | |
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belch
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| v.打嗝，喷出 | |
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artillery
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| n.(军)火炮，大炮；炮兵(部队) | |
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crunch
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| n.关键时刻；艰难局面；v.发出碎裂声 | |
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slays
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的第三人称单数 ) | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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swirl
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| v.(使)打漩，(使)涡卷；n.漩涡，螺旋形 | |
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aprons
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| 围裙( apron的名词复数 )； 停机坪，台口（舞台幕前的部份） | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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buck
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| n.雄鹿，雄兔；v.马离地跳跃 | |
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munch
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| v.用力嚼，大声咀嚼 | |
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herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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willow
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| n.柳树 | |
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joints
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| 接头( joint的名词复数 )； 关节； 公共场所（尤指价格低廉的饮食和娱乐场所） （非正式）； 一块烤肉 （英式英语） | |
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sniffs
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的第三人称单数 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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39
gut
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| n.[pl.]胆量；内脏；adj.本能的；vt.取出内脏 | |
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40
stashes
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| n.隐藏处( stash的名词复数 )v.贮藏( stash的第三人称单数 )；隐藏；藏匿；藏起 | |
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41
poke
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| n.刺，戳，袋；vt.拨开，刺，戳；vi.戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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42
anemone
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| n.海葵 | |
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43
withers
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| 马肩隆 | |
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44
timing
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| n.时间安排，时间选择 | |
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45
astounding
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| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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46
radar
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| n.雷达，无线电探测器 | |
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47
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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48
sitcom
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| n.情景喜剧，（广播、电视的）系列幽默剧 | |
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49
strut
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| v.肿胀，鼓起；大摇大摆地走；炫耀；支撑；撑开；n.高视阔步；支柱，撑杆 | |
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50
setback
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| n.退步，挫折，挫败 | |
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51
patio
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| n.庭院，平台 | |
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52
scuttling
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| n.船底穿孔，打开通海阀（沉船用）v.使船沉没( scuttle的现在分词 )；快跑，急走 | |
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53
imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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54
fingerprints
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| n.指纹( fingerprint的名词复数 )v.指纹( fingerprint的第三人称单数 ) | |
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bugs
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| adj.疯狂的，发疯的n.窃听器( bug的名词复数 )；病菌；虫子；[计算机]（制作软件程序所产生的意料不到的）错误 | |
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56
willows
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| n.柳树( willow的名词复数 )；柳木 | |
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oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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mantis
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| n.螳螂 | |
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rattles
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| （使）发出格格的响声， （使）作嘎嘎声( rattle的第三人称单数 )； 喋喋不休地说话； 迅速而嘎嘎作响地移动，堕下或走动； 使紧张，使恐惧 | |
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60
jacks
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| n.抓子游戏；千斤顶( jack的名词复数 )；（电）插孔；[电子学]插座；放弃 | |
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61
squints
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| 斜视症( squint的名词复数 )； 瞥 | |
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corporate
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| adj.共同的，全体的；公司的，企业的 | |
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shuffle
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| n.拖著脚走，洗纸牌；v.拖曳，慢吞吞地走 | |
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scamper
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| v.奔跑，快跑 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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pout
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| v.撅嘴；绷脸；n.撅嘴；生气，不高兴 | |
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detention
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| n.滞留，停留；拘留，扣留；(教育)留下 | |
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devastating
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| adj.毁灭性的，令人震惊的，强有力的 | |
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bunk
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| n.(车、船等倚壁而设的)铺位；废话 | |
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odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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74
sanitation
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| n.公共卫生，环境卫生，卫生设备 | |
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vindicated
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| v.澄清（某人/某事物）受到的责难或嫌疑( vindicate的过去式和过去分词 )；表明或证明（所争辩的事物）属实、正当、有效等；维护 | |
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utensils
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| 器具，用具，器皿( utensil的名词复数 )； 器物 | |
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utensil
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| n.器皿，用具 | |
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deluxe
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| adj.华美的，豪华的，高级的 | |
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pessimist
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| n.悲观者；悲观主义者；厌世 | |
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hormone
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| n.荷尔蒙，激素，内分泌 | |
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81
seeped
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| v.（液体）渗( seep的过去式和过去分词 )；渗透；渗出；漏出 | |
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82
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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83
writhing
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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84
elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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85
thigh
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| n.大腿；股骨 | |
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86
ablaze
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| adj.着火的，燃烧的；闪耀的，灯火辉煌的 | |
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deployed
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| （尤指军事行动）使展开( deploy的过去式和过去分词 )； 施展； 部署； 有效地利用 | |
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88
burrows
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| n.地洞( burrow的名词复数 )v.挖掘（洞穴），挖洞( burrow的第三人称单数 )；翻寻 | |
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89
vents
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| （气体、液体等进出的）孔、口( vent的名词复数 )； （鸟、鱼、爬行动物或小哺乳动物的）肛门； 大衣等的)衩口； 开衩 | |
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90
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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91
fanfare
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| n.喇叭；号角之声；v.热闹地宣布 | |
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