'The dogs will also uncover firearms, and other devices,' says the sheriff on TV. 'So if a weapon is found, it'll just be a matter of matching the fingerprints1.'
'And if you get a match - case closed?' asks the reporter.
'You bet.'
Mom switches off the TV on her scurry2 back to the kitchen. 'Lord, Vernon, please don't go to the Tragedy Sale in those shoes, you heard what everybody thinks. Please. I can't believe there isn't a pair of Tumbledowns in your size around town.'
'Timberlands, Ma.'
'Whatever. Look, here's the pastor3 now. I know it's not much of a job, but, as Lally says, it's important to show the community you're making good.'
'But I didn't do anything - damn!'
'Vernon Gregory!' says Lally. 'Don't argue with your mother.'
He wears this fancy suit today, with a tie and all. Suddenly this fancy fucken suit appeared.
I just want to fucken die, go back to jail, to the warmth of Barry and his crew of madcap funsters. Last night was a long night at home, real fucken long. To cap it off, Kurt started barking again. I swear the barking circuit that orbits town every night starts and ends with fucken Kurt. For such a nerdy dog, I don't see how he got to be president of the barking circuit. It ain't like he's a fucken rat-wheeler or anything.
Lally sucks down a ginseng, and nuzzles Mom. 'Hey,' he grunts5, 'remember what we talked about? If I get the series, we'll fill this house with Special Edition fridges.'
Her lips tighten6. 'Well I don't know what happened to that order, now it looks like Nancie got one. Anyway, if you saw her old refrigerator you'd know why. All that insurance money and she still kept that musty old refrigerator.'
'Shhh,' whispers Lally. 'We got a new speakerphone, didn't we? Now you don't even have to hold the receiver!'
I get waves about it all. My ole lady was never Honey Bear like this with my daddy. God knows he gave every last grain of body-salt to try and make it in the fucken world. It just wasn't enough, in the end, I guess. The day he got his first thousand dollars, the neighbors must've got ten. Aim for a million bucks7, you suddenly need a billion. I upgraded my computer, but it wasn't enough. No matter what, it ain't fucken enough in life, that's what I learned.
The preacher steps over the porch and maneuvers8 his flab past the kitchen screen. 'This glorious Saturday smells of joy cakes,' he booms. I swear the Lord giveth and just keeps fucken givething to Pastor Gibbons.
'They're hot and perky, Pastor,' Mom whisks the napkin off a tray of pessimistic-looking bakes, offering it up like it was a feel of her tits twenty years ago. Gibbons' new Timberlands chirp9 a trail across the linoleum10.
He grabs a cake, then turns to smile at me. 'And you're my deputy for the day?'
'That's your boy,' says Lally, 'he'll give a hundred and fifty percent.'
'Awesome11, I'll put him on the bake stall - we're hoping to raise ten grand today, for the new media center.'
Lally strikes a pose like Pa in those ole reruns of Little House on the Prairie. 'This town sure is teaching a thing or two about community spirit, Pastor.'
'God knows the Tragedy Committee has worked miracles to bring some good out of the devastation,' says Gibbons. 'Word is, one of the networks might even put us national today.' He pulls focus from infinity12 to Lally's face. 'Wouldn't be - your people, would it, Mr Ledesma?'
Lally smiles the smile of a doting13 God. 'I'll certainly be giving you some camera time, Pastor, don't you worry. The world will be yours.'
'Oh my,' Gibbons does the coy padre off that ole army hospital show. 'All right, Vernon,' he says, nudging me toward the door. 'The Lord helps those who help themselves …'
'See you there,' says Mom.
Lally follows us onto the porch. As soon as we're out of Mom's sight, he grabs my ear and twists it hard. 'This is the way forward, little man - don't blow it.'
Son of a stadium full of bitches. I rub my ear on the way to the New Life Center; the pastor listens to the radio as he drives, nose up to the windscreen. He doesn't talk to me at all. We pass Leona Dunt's house, with the fountain in front. Her trash is out four days early again. That's to help you take stock of all the rope-handled boutique bags, and razor-edged boxes barfing tissue and ribbon. You could sell her a fucken turd if it was giftwrapped, I swear.
The Lozano boys are out hawking15 T-shirts on the corner of Liberty Drive. One design has 'I survived Martirio' splattered across it in red. Another has holes ripped through it, and says: 'I went to Martirio and all I got was this lousy exit wound.' Preacher Gibbons tuts, and shakes his head.
'Twenty dollars,' he says. 'Twenty dollars for a simple cotton T-shirt.'
I slouch low in my seat, but not before Emile Lozano sees me. 'Yo, Vermin! Vermin Little!' he whoops16 and salutes17 me like a fucken hero or something. The pastor's eyebrows18 ride up. Thanks, fucken Emile. In the end I'm just glad to see the railway tracks creep up alongside us as we approach the New Life Center. The radio is pissing me off now, to be honest. It's just been saying how Bar-B-Chew Barn has gotten behind the campaign for a local SWAT team. Now it's making noise about the hunt for the second firearm. They don't say exactly where they're fixing to hunt; like, they don't say they're specifically going to hunt around Keeter's or anything. If they were going to hunt around the Keeter property, you'd think they'd say it.
The New Life Center is actually our ole church. Today the lawn and carpark have been turned into a carnival19 market, a laundry-day of tousled whites flapping under the sun. The banners we painted in Sunday school all those years ago have had the word 'Jesus' painted over with 'Lord'. I help the pastor unload the car and carry stuff to a cake stand right next to the train tracks. He installs me there, as caretaker of the cake stand, and - get this - I have to wear a fucken choir20 gown. Vernon Gucci Little, in his unfashionable Jordan New Jacks21, with fucken choir gown. After ten minutes, the morning freight train lumbers22 past my back, honking23 all the while. It never honks24 if you don't stand here in a fucken choir gown.
You don't know how full my head is of plans to disappear. The crusher is that I got identified by Pam at the bus depot25, so they'll just be waiting for my face to show up again. Truth be told, they probably installed a fucken panic button or something, In Case of Vernon. Probably connected it to Vaine Gurie's ass14. Or Goosens's pecker or something. It means I'll have to cross country to the interstate, maybe find a truck on its way from Surinam, or a driver who hasn't seen the news, a blind and deaf driver. Plenty of 'em out there, if you listen to Pam.
As the sun pitches high and sharp, more folk wander into the market. You can tell they're making an effort not to seem drained and bleak27. Drained and bleak is what town's about these days, despite the joy cakes. They ain't setting the world on fire with sales, I have to say. Everybody keeps a safe distance from the joy cakes. Or from me, I guess. Mr Lechuga even turns his desk away from me, over by the prize tent, where he's selling lottery28 tickets. After a while Lally and my ole lady arrive. You can't actually see them yet, but you can hear Mom's Burt Bacharach disc playing somewhere. It cuts through the gloom like a pencil through your lung. Nobody else would have that disc, I fucken guarantee it, with all these jingle29 singers going, 'Something big is what I'm livin for,' all tappetty-shucksy, bubbly silk pie, just the way she likes. A typical stroke-job of musical lies, like everybody grew up with back then, back when all the tunes30 had a trumpet31 in them, that sounded like it was played through somebody's ass.
'Well hi Bobbie, hi Margaret!' My ole lady breezes out of Lally's new rental32 car wearing a checked top that leaves a roll of her belly33 in the air. I guess she quit mourning already. She also has sparkly red sunglasses. All she needs is a fucken poodle to carry, I swear. The vacuum in her ass no longer sucks her hair into a helmety perm, now it hangs wanton and loose.
Lally wanders up to my stall and prods34 a joy cake. 'Turnover35?'
'Four-fifty,' I say.
'The smiles on these cakes aren't even facing the right way - come on, Vern, lure36 the bucks in - these aren't the only cakes in the world, you know.'
'Thank fuck for that,' I want to say, but I don't. You'd think I had though, for the fucken daggers37 he stares at me. Then he just strolls away.
'Nice gown,' he snorts over his shoulder.
Mom lingers back. 'Go ahead, Lalito, I'll see you at the sizzle.' Her eyes flick38 over the crowd, then she sidles up to me like a spy. 'Vernon, are you all right?' That's my ole mom. I swell39 with involuntary warmth.
'I guess so,' I say. That's what you say around here if you mean 'No'.
She fidgets with my collar. 'Well, if you're sure - I only want you to be happy.' That's what you say around here if you mean 'Tough shit'. 'If you could just get a job,' she says, 'make a little money, things'd be fine again, I know they would.' She squeezes my hand.
'Mom, with Eulalio around? Please …'
'Well don't deny me my bitty speck40 of happiness, after all that's happened! You always said be independent - well, here I am, asserting my individuality as a woman.'
'After what he did to me?'
'After what he did to you? What about what you did to me? This is something special with Lally, I know it is. A woman knows these things. He already told me about an amazing investment company - over ninety percent return, virtually guaranteed. That's how much they offer, and he told me about it, not Leona or anyone else.'
'Yeah, like we have money to invest.'
'Well, I can take out another loan, I mean - ninety percent.'
'With that snake-oil merchant?'
'Oh baby - you're jealous,' she licks her fingers and rubs a trail of spit across an imaginary smudge on my cheek. 'I still love you the most you know, golly, I mean …'
'I know, Ma - even murderers.'
'Hi Gloria, hi Cletus!' She leaves me with a kiss, then sashays east up the stalls, dragging my soul in the dust behind her. Don't even ask me what the laws of fucken nature say about this one. I mean, you see reindeer41 and polar bears on TV, and you just know they don't get alternating rage and sadness over their fucken loved ones.
Next thing you know, my goddam heart stops beating anyway. Just clean fucken stops in its tracks, the whole damn thing. I immediately fucken die. There, less than ten feet away, steps Mrs Figueroa - Taylor's mom. God, she's beautiful too. The waistband on her denims throws a shadow on her skin, which means there's space in there. Just the up-thrust of her butt26 keeps her jeans up. Not like my ole lady, who just about needs a fucken military harness. My mouth quivers like an asshole, trying to say something cool to win her over, to get Taylor's number. Then I see a fucken choir gown on my body. By the time I look back up, the meatworks' barber has stepped in front of her. He doddles through the crowd towards the beer stand, dressed like he's at a fucken funeral or something.
He bumps into my stall on the way. 'Sorry, miss,' he says to me.
Mrs Figueroa laughs, to finish me off. Then she's gone. The barber catches another ole guy's eye across the beer stand. 'I'm gettin a posse up,' he calls, 'to hep the Guries find that weapon. Cleet, if you're interested, we're headin out in about an hour.'
'Where'll we meet?'
'Meatworks - bring the kids, we'll barbecue after the hunt. We're gonna cover the trail through Keeter's - word is, the teacher Nuckles said somethin about a gun out there, afore he went haywire.'
Jeopardy42. I have to get to Keeter's. My eyes search the market for a window of opportunity, but all I see are drapes in the form of Lally, Mom and the goddam pastor. Then I just keep fucken seeing them; with Betty Pritchard, without Betty Pritchard. At Leona's champagne43 stand, away from Leona's champagne stand. I tingle44 cold in the heat for a whole hour, then another. Every inch of lengthening45 shadow is another footstep on my fucken grave. Georgette Porkorney arrives. Betty comes to meet her, they walk past my stand.
'Look, he's just so passive,' whispers George. 'Of course he'll fetch trouble if he stays so passive …'
'I know, just like that, ehm - Mexican boy …'
George stops to do a double-take at Betty. 'Honey, I don't think passive's the word, in light of everything.'
'I know . . .'
The only relief comes with Palmyra; she musses my hair and slips me a Twinkie. Finally, at two o'clock, the pastor goes into the prize tent with Mr Lechuga.
'Bless you all for supporting our market,' a loudspeaker blares. Clumps46 of people move towards the tent. You can see Mom, Lally, George, and Betty on the far side of the lawn, mooching by Leona's champagne stand. You can't actually see Leona, but you know she's there because Mom throws back her head when she laughs.
'And now,' says Gibbons, 'the moment you've all been waiting for - the grand prize draw!' Everybody turns towards the tent. My window opens.
'Hey dude!' I call a passing kid, of the kind that can't close their lips over their braces47, like they have a fucken radiator48 grille for a mouth or something. 'Wanna job for an hour?'
The kid stops, looks me up and down. 'Not in a freakin dress I don't.'
'It ain't a dress, duh. Anyway, you don't have to wear it, just mind these cakes awhile.'
'How much you payin?'
'Nothing, you get a commission on sales.'
'Flat or indexed?'
'Indexed to what?' Like, the kid's only fucken ten years ole, for chrissakes.
'I'll give you eighteen percent, flat.'
'You for real? These stupid cakes? Who ever heard of a joy cake anyway, I never heard of no joy cake.' He turns to walk away.
'And here's the winning ticket,' says Gibbons. 'Green forty-seven!' A sluggish50 frenzy51 breaks through the tent. The kid stops, and drags a mangled52 pink ticket from his pocket. He squints53 at it, like it might turn fucken green. Then Mom's voice occurs.
'Well, oh my Lord! Here Pastor, green forty-seven!'
The ladies and Lally clot54 around her, cooing and gasping55, and hustle56 her into the tent. Boy is she boosted up. My ole lady never won anything before.
'Dude!' I call metal-mouth back.
'Twenty bucks flat, one hour,' he says over his shoulder.
'Yeah, like I'm Bill Gates or something.'
'Twenty-five bucks, or no deal.'
'Here's the lucky winner,' says the pastor, 'of this sturdy, pre-loved refrigerator, generously donated, without a thought for their own grief, by the Lechugas of Beulah Drive.'
That's the last you hear of my ole lady's voice. Probably forever. What you hear is just Leona.
'Oh - wow!'
'Thirty bucks,' the kid says to me, 'flat, one calendar hour. Final offer.'
I'm hung out to fucken dry by this fat midget, who could just about net crawdads with his fucken mouth. Or rather, I would've been hung out to dry if I was even coming back to pay him. But I ain't coming back. Today I'll give the gun a wipe, grab my escape fund from the bank, and blow the hell out of town. For real.
'It's ten after two,' says the kid. 'See you in one hour.'
'Wait up - my watch says quarter after.'
'It's fuckin ten after - take it or leave it.'
Whatever. I rip the gown off and stuff it into a box under the table, then I run crouched57 alongside the railroad tracks toward the green end of Liberty Drive. Preacher Gibbons's voice echoes down the line behind me. 'Speaking of refrigerators, did y'all hear the one about the rabbit?'
Glancing over my shoulder, I see Mom run crying to the rest-rooms behind the New Life Center. But I can't afford any waves. I have to grab my bike and fly to Keeter's. Strangers mill around Liberty Drive corner, next to a new sign erected59 in front of the Hearts of Mercy Hospice. 'Coming Soon!' it reads. 'La Elegancia Convention Center.' A real ole man scowls60 from the hospice porch. I pull my head in and start to cross the street, but a stranger calls out to me.
'Little!' I speed up, but he calls again. 'Little, it's not about you!' The dude must be a reporter. He breaks from a group of roaming media, and steps up to me. 'The red van that used to park next to your house - you seen it around?'
'Yeah, it's at Willard Down's lot.'
'I mean the guy that used to drive it …'
'Eulalio, from CNN?'
'Yeah, the guy from Nacogdoches - you seen him?'
'Uh - Nacogdoches?'
'Uh-huh, this guy here - the repairman.' He pulls a crumpled61 business card from his shirt pocket. 'Eulalio Ledesma Gutierrez,' it reads, 'President & Service Technician-In-Chief, Care Media Nacogdoches.,'
The stranger shakes his head. 'Bastard62 owes me money.'
'O Eulalio, yo! Lalio, yo! Lalio, share this fucken challenge now.' That's what I sing on the ride out to Keeter's. I feel Jesus with me in the breeze, happier than usual, not so deathly, maybe because I finally got a fucken break. I'm going to call the number on this card, and get the slimy lowdown on Yoo-hoo-lalio. Then, when that reporter turns up at home later, for his cash, everybody will discover the fucken truth. It means I can leave town knowing my ole lady's okay. This business card is all the artillery63 I need. What I learned in court is you need artillery.
Laundry and antenna64 poles wriggle65 like caught snakes over Crockett Park. This is a neighborhood where underwear sags66 low. For instance, ole Mr Deutschman lives up here, who used to be upstanding and decent. This is where you live if you used to be less worse. Folks who beat up on each other, and clean their own carburetors, live up here. It's different from where I live, closer to town, where everything gets all bottled the fuck up. Just bottled the fuck up till it fucken explodes, so you spend the whole time waiting to see who's going to pop next. I guess a kind of smelly honesty is what you find at Crockett's. A smelly honesty, and clean carburetors.
The last payphone in town stands next to a corrugated67 metal fence on Keeter's corner, the remotest edge of town. If you live in Crockett's, this is your personal phone. Empty land stretches away behind it into the folds of the Balcones Escarpment, as far as you can imagine. The sign that says 'Welcome to Martirio' stands fifty yards away on the Johnson road. Somebody has crossed out the population number, and written 'Watch this space' over it. That's fucken Crockett's for you. Smelly honesty, and a sense of humor.
I lean my bike against the fence and step up to the phone. It's twenty-nine minutes after two. I have to stay aware that ole metal-mouth back at the sale will start bawling68 for me after an hour. I wipe the phone mouthpiece on my pants leg, a thing you learn to do up this end of town, and call up CMN in Nacogdoches. CMN - CNN - Get it? Fucken Lally, boy. New York my fucken wiener.
The number rings. A real ole lady answers. 'He-llo?'
'Uh, hello - I'm wondering if Eulalio Ledesma works there?'
You hear the ole gal69 catch her breath. 'Who is this?'
'This is, uh - Bradley Pritchard, in Martirio.'
'Well, I only have what's left in my purse …' Coins clatter70 onto a tabletop at her end. You sense it ain't going to be a quick call.
'Ma'am, I'm not calling for anything, I just wanted …'
'Seven dollars and thirty cents - no - around eight dollars is all I have, for groceries.'
'I didn't mean to trouble you, ma'am - I thought this was a business number.'
'That's right - "Care" - I had cards printed for Lalo, "Care Media Nacogdoches," that's the name he chose. You tell Jeannie Wyler this was never a tinpot operation - we moved my bed into the hallway to make space for his office, to help him get started.'
Mixed feelings I get. Like Lally falling off a cliff chained to my nana. 'Ma'am, I'm sorry I troubled you.'
'Well, the president isn't here right now.'
'I know, he's down here - you must've seen him on TV these days?'
'That's in very poor taste young man. Why, I've been blind for thirty years.'
'I'm real sorry, ma'am.'
'Have you seen him? Have you seen my Lalo?'
'As a matter of fact, he's staying at my - uh - friend's house.'
'Oh heavens, let me find a pen …'
Another bunch of stuff clatters71 down the line. I stand here and wonder how you read and write when you're blind. I guess you etch lines that you can feel with your fingers, like in clay or something. Or cheese, carry cheese around all the time.
'I know it's here somewhere,' she says. 'You tell Lalo the finance company took everything, they wouldn't wait another second for payment on the van, and now the Wylers are suing over their video camera. Imagine that! - and I was the one who talked them into repairing it in the first place. Those cameras don't fix themselves overnight you know, that's what I told her. I just wish everything wasn't in my name …'
She finds the cheese, and I give her my phone number. My early joy has melted now, with the serious reality of things. I say goodbye to the lady and ride away towards the escarpment, to find the gun. Jesus rides with me in spirit. He stays silent. I've changed the course of Fate, and it weighs on me heavy.
Bushes on Keeter's trail are bizarre, all spiky72 and gnarled, with just enough clearing between them so the unknown is never more than fifteen yards away. Not many creatures come this far into Keeter's. Me and Jesus are the only ones I know. Last time I saw him alive at Keeter's, he was in the far distance.
Ole man Keeter owns this empty slab73 of land, miles of it probably, outside town. He put a wrecking74 shop by the ole Johnson road, Keeter's Spares & Repairs - just a mess of junk in the dirt, really. He doesn't even run it anymore. When we say Keeter's around here, we usually mean the land, not the auto75 shop. You might see some steers76 on it, or deer; but mostly just bleached77 beer cans and shit. The edge of the universe of town. Martirio boys suck their first taste of guns, girls and beer out here. You never forget the blade of wind that cuts across Keeter's.
In the thick of the property lies a depression in the ground, sixty-one yards across, with wire and bushes matted around it. At the steepest end is an ole mine shaft78. The den4, we call it. We rigged up a door with some sheets of tin, and put a padlock on it and all. It was our headquarters, during those carefree years. That's where I took a shit the other day, the day of the tragedy, if you need to know. That's where the rifle is stashed79.
It's two thirty-eight in the afternoon. Hot and sticky, with fast-moving clouds bunched low across the sky. I get to within two hundred yards of the den and hear a hammer-blow. Something moves in the bushes up ahead. It's ole Tyrie Lasseen, who runs Spares & Repairs, sinking markers into the ground. He's dressed in a suit and tie. He jackrabbits before I can hide.
'Okay, son?' he calls. 'Don't be touchin nothin, could be dangerous.'
'Sure, Mr Lasseen, I'm just cruising …'
'I wouldn't recommend you cruise around here, maybe you better head back to the road.'
Tyrie is the kind of Texan who takes his time telling you to fuck off. He shuffles80 three steps towards me, and wipes some sweat from the top of his head. His eyes crinkle like barbed wire snagged with horsehair, and his mouth hangs open a little. Ole George Bush Senior used to do the same thing - just have this default face position where his bottom jaw81 hung open a little. Like these guys listen through their mouths or something.
'Sir, I'm just passing through to the San Marcos road, I won't touch anything at all.'
Mr Lasseen stands there and listens, through his mouth; his tongue lolls like a snake inside. Then these rusty82 sounds slither onto the breeze. 'The San Marcos road? The San Marcos road? Son, I don't recommend takin this way to the San Marcos road. I recommend you head on back to the Johnson road, and ride around it.'
'But, the thing is …'
'Son, the best thing I recommend is to get yourself back onto the Johnson road. I recommend that, and don't be pokin around here no more - this'll be a restricted area just now.' His jaw drops even lower, to hear any stray comeback, then he throws a finger at town. 'Go on now.'
Weeds blow across the trail home, corrugated metal sheets flap, and with their creaks come the sound of dogs barking. I have only one chance left to reach the gun. When Lasseen is safely out of sight, I edge my front wheel off the track and rocket through the wilds in an arc that will take me around him, to the back of the den. Bushes squat83 lower on this part of Keeter's, joined by tall grasses and chunks84 of household debris85. I nearly smash into a nest of toilet bowls, abandoned in the undergrowth like some kind of vegetarian86 pinball machine. As I slalom through them, I see a Bar-B-Chew Barn cap up ahead. Voices waft87 down on a breeze.
'Who cares about ole nature,' says a kid.
'It's not just nature, Steven - there might be a gun.'
It's the meatworks posse. I know it even before the marching band strikes up. I lay down the bike and huddle88 into the nest of bowls, trying to gauge89 the distance between me and the dogs working their way from the town side. It's four minutes to three. Kids start to surround my position. I crouch58 low.
'Bernie?' says a little voice.
'Wha?' My nerves half electrocute me to fucken death.
I spin my head around. Behind a bush at my back crouches90 Ella Bouchard. She's a girl from Crockett's, who used to go to my junior school. Believe me, you don't want to fucken know.
'Hi, Bernie,' she says, shuffling91 closer.
'Shhh, willya! I'm tryin to rest a little here, God.'
'Looks like you're hidin out to me, that's what it looks like, to me anyway …'
'Ella - it's real urgent that nobody disturbs me right now - okay?'
Her smile falters92. She watches me through big blue eyes, like doll's eyes or something. 'Wanna see my south pole?' Her dusty ole knees part a little, a flash of panty shines out.
'Shit, come on, willya? Hell,' I blow extra air out of my cheeks with the words, like a Democrat93 or whatever. I still look, though. It's automatic with panties, don't tell me it ain't. Ole cotton there, stretched gray, like fucken airplanes use her to land on.
'Can I just hang out - Bernie?' She closes back her legs.
'Shhh! Anyway, my name's not even Bernie, duh.'
'It is too Bernie, or somethin like that, it's Bernie or somethin like that.'
'Listen - can't I owe you or something? Can't we hang out another time?'
'If it's true, and for actual real, maybe. Like when?'
'Well I don't know, just sometime, next time or whatever.'
'Promise?'
'Yeah I promise.'
I feel her breath lapping at my face, Juicy-Fruit breath, hot and solid like piss. I turn my back, to invite her to crawl away, but she doesn't. I can tell she's staring.
'Fucken what?' I say, spinning around on her.
She throws a weak smile. 'I love you Bernie.' Then, with a thump94 of plastic sandal, and a swish of blue cotton, she's gone. It's five minutes after three. Your eyes automatically check when it's time for deep shit, in case you hadn't noticed.
'Okay team, stop here for the first item in your snack-packs!' yells a lady. 'That's the item with the red label, the red-label item only.'
'Don't go there, boys,' you hear Tyrie Lasseen call in the distance. 'That's an ole mine shaft, stay well away.' Relief scuds95 through me as Tyrie warns them away from the den. Then another cluster of voices comes near.
'Todd,' says a lady, 'I told you to go before we left the meat-works. Just use one of these bushes, nobody can see.' You hear a dorkball squeak96 something in back, then the lady says: 'Well you ain't gonna find one out here, this ain't the mall, in case you hadn't noticed.'
We don't even have a fucken mall, by the way. Notice how folks always throw in that extra smart-assed thing when the media's around. They just pick the first fucken thing to say, like the mall or whatever.
'Use those toilet bowls, over there,' calls some asshole in a fake girl's voice.
'Hey, yeah,' says a lady, 'I saw some toilet bowls around here somewhere - maybe that'll help you pretend.'
'Wait up!' says Ella Bouchard. 'You better not use them potties - snakes sleep in 'em.'
'Oh my God,' says the lady. Todd, wait! I better come with you.'
They crackle through the bushes into my nest. I stand out of the dirt and pick up my bike, casually97, like I'm in the freezer section at the Mini-Mart or something.
'It's the psycho!' says the kid.
'Shhh, Todd, don't be silly,' says the lady. She turns to me. 'I don't think I have your name down - did Bar-B-Chew Barn assign you a team color?'
'Uh - green?' I say.
'Can't be green, it can only be a color from their logo.' She pulls out her phone. 'I'll call Mrs Gurie and check the list - what's your name again?'
'Uh - Brad Pritchard.'
'Brad Pritchard? But we already have a Brad Pritchard …'
There comes a wet rustle98 from the bushes, like a dog eating lettuce99, then Brad tiptoes into the clearing with Mini-Mart bags tied over his Timberlands. He points out a cloud with his nose. That's nouvelle; having the convict look for his own gun.'
'Vaine?' says the lady into her phone. 'I think we need some assistance.'
I jump onto my bike and hit the pedals hard. Dirt spews across the clearing.
Girls giggle100, camera tool-belts rattle101, and in amongst them as I ride away, ride like the fucken wind itself, you hear Brad Pritchard faking a dumb girl's voice. 'Hey, Bernie - wanna see my south pole?'
I spin twisters along the track to town. My only option is to hit the fucken road. Right away. I throw my bike to the ground in front of the teller102 machine on Gurie Street. I love my bike, but I just crash it the fuck down. It ain't a fancy bike, but it's strong, and used to belong to my grand-daddy, back when the town still only had two roads. I crash it down. That's the kind of twisted shit this life has in store for you, guaranteed.
I put my bank card into the machine, and tap in the code -6768. My heart bounces along the floor of my body as I wait for the ciphers103 of Nana's lawnmowing fund to appear. After nine years, a message jumps to the screen.
'Balance - $2.41,' it says.
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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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2
scurry
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| vi.急匆匆地走；使急赶；催促；n.快步急跑，疾走；仓皇奔跑声；骤雨，骤雪；短距离赛马 | |
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pastor
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| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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grunts
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的第三人称单数 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说； 石鲈 | |
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tighten
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| v.(使)变紧；(使)绷紧 | |
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bucks
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| n.雄鹿( buck的名词复数 )；钱；（英国十九世纪初的）花花公子；（用于某些表达方式）责任v.（马等）猛然弓背跃起( buck的第三人称单数 )；抵制；猛然震荡；马等尥起后蹄跳跃 | |
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maneuvers
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| n.策略，谋略，花招( maneuver的名词复数 ) | |
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chirp
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| v.(尤指鸟)唧唧喳喳的叫 | |
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linoleum
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| n.油布，油毯 | |
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awesome
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| adj.令人惊叹的，难得吓人的，很好的 | |
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infinity
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| n.无限，无穷，大量 | |
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13
doting
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| adj.溺爱的，宠爱的 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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15
hawking
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| 利用鹰行猎 | |
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whoops
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| int.呼喊声 | |
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salutes
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| n.致敬，欢迎，敬礼( salute的名词复数 )v.欢迎，致敬( salute的第三人称单数 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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18
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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19
carnival
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| n.嘉年华会，狂欢，狂欢节，巡回表演 | |
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20
choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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21
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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lumbers
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| 砍伐（lumber的第三人称单数形式） | |
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23
honking
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| v.（使）发出雁叫似的声音，鸣（喇叭），按（喇叭）( honk的现在分词 ) | |
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24
honks
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| n.雁叫声( honk的名词复数 )；汽车的喇叭声v.（使）发出雁叫似的声音，鸣（喇叭），按（喇叭）( honk的第三人称单数 ) | |
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25
depot
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| n.仓库，储藏处；公共汽车站；火车站 | |
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26
butt
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| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
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27
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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lottery
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| n.抽彩；碰运气的事，难于算计的事 | |
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jingle
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| n.叮当声，韵律简单的诗句；v.使叮当作响，叮当响，押韵 | |
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30
tunes
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| n.曲调，曲子( tune的名词复数 )v.调音( tune的第三人称单数 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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31
trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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32
rental
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| n.租赁，出租，出租业 | |
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33
belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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34
prods
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| n.刺，戳( prod的名词复数 )；刺激；促使；（用手指或尖物）戳v.刺，戳( prod的第三人称单数 )；刺激；促使；（用手指或尖物）戳 | |
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35
turnover
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| n.人员流动率，人事变动率；营业额，成交量 | |
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36
lure
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| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
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37
daggers
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| 匕首，短剑( dagger的名词复数 ) | |
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38
flick
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| n.快速的轻打，轻打声，弹开；v.轻弹，轻轻拂去，忽然摇动 | |
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39
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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40
speck
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| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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41
reindeer
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| n.驯鹿 | |
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42
jeopardy
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| n.危险；危难 | |
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43
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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44
tingle
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| vi.感到刺痛，感到激动；n.刺痛，激动 | |
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45
lengthening
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的现在分词 )； 加长 | |
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46
clumps
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| n.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的名词复数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声v.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的第三人称单数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声 | |
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47
braces
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| n.吊带，背带；托架( brace的名词复数 )；箍子；括弧；（儿童）牙箍v.支住( brace的第三人称单数 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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48
radiator
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| n.暖气片，散热器 | |
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49
sneers
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| 讥笑的表情（言语）( sneer的名词复数 ) | |
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50
sluggish
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| adj.懒惰的，迟钝的，无精打采的 | |
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51
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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52
mangled
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| vt.乱砍（mangle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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53
squints
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| 斜视症( squint的名词复数 )； 瞥 | |
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54
clot
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| n.凝块；v.使凝成块 | |
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55
gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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56
hustle
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| v.推搡；竭力兜售或获取；催促；n.奔忙(碌) | |
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57
crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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58
crouch
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| v.蹲伏，蜷缩，低头弯腰；n.蹲伏 | |
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59
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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scowls
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| 不悦之色，怒容( scowl的名词复数 ) | |
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61
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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62
bastard
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| n.坏蛋，混蛋；私生子 | |
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63
artillery
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| n.(军)火炮，大炮；炮兵(部队) | |
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64
antenna
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| n.触角，触须；天线 | |
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wriggle
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| v./n.蠕动，扭动；蜿蜒 | |
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66
sags
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| 向下凹或中间下陷( sag的第三人称单数 )； 松弛或不整齐地悬着 | |
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67
corrugated
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| adj.波纹的；缩成皱纹的；波纹面的；波纹状的v.（使某物）起皱褶(corrugate的过去式和过去分词) | |
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68
bawling
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| v.大叫，大喊( bawl的现在分词 )；放声大哭；大声叫出；叫卖（货物） | |
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69
gal
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| n.姑娘，少女 | |
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70
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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71
clatters
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| 盘碟刀叉等相撞击时的声音( clatter的名词复数 ) | |
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72
spiky
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| adj.长而尖的，大钉似的 | |
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73
slab
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| n.平板，厚的切片；v.切成厚板，以平板盖上 | |
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74
wrecking
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| 破坏 | |
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75
auto
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| n.(=automobile)(口语)汽车 | |
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76
steers
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| n.阉公牛，肉用公牛( steer的名词复数 )v.驾驶( steer的第三人称单数 )；操纵；控制；引导 | |
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bleached
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| 漂白的，晒白的，颜色变浅的 | |
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78
shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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79
stashed
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| v.贮藏( stash的过去式和过去分词 )；隐藏；藏匿；藏起 | |
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80
shuffles
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| n.洗（纸牌）( shuffle的名词复数 )；拖着脚步走；粗心地做；摆脱尘世的烦恼v.洗（纸牌）( shuffle的第三人称单数 )；拖着脚步走；粗心地做；摆脱尘世的烦恼 | |
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81
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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82
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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83
squat
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| v.蹲坐，蹲下；n.蹲下；adj.矮胖的，粗矮的 | |
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84
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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85
debris
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| n.瓦砾堆，废墟，碎片 | |
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86
vegetarian
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| n.素食者；adj.素食的 | |
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87
waft
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| v.飘浮，飘荡；n.一股；一阵微风；飘荡 | |
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88
huddle
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| vi.挤作一团；蜷缩；vt.聚集；n.挤在一起的人 | |
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89
gauge
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| v.精确计量；估计；n.标准度量；计量器 | |
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crouches
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| n.蹲着的姿势( crouch的名词复数 )v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的第三人称单数 ) | |
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91
shuffling
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| adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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92
falters
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的第三人称单数 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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93
democrat
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| n.民主主义者，民主人士；民主党党员 | |
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94
thump
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| v.重击，砰然地响；n.重击，重击声 | |
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95
scuds
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| v.（尤指船、舰或云彩）笔直、高速而平稳地移动( scud的第三人称单数 ) | |
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96
squeak
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| n.吱吱声，逃脱；v.（发出）吱吱叫，侥幸通过；（俚）告密 | |
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97
casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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98
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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99
lettuce
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| n.莴苣；生菜 | |
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100
giggle
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| n.痴笑，咯咯地笑；v.咯咯地笑着说 | |
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101
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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102
teller
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| n.银行出纳员；(选举)计票员 | |
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103
ciphers
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| n.密码( cipher的名词复数 )；零；不重要的人；无价值的东西 | |
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