'Hello?' The voice is liquid ass1 in panty elastic2.
Taylor, hi - it's Vern.'
'Wait up, I'll get her,' says a girl. 'Tay! Taylor - it's Vern.'
'Who?' calls a voice in the background.
Then you hear giggles3. I fucken hate that. Your chances with a girl fall sharply in the vicinity of giggles. Learning: never try to deal with more than one girl at a time.
She finally clatters4 onto the line. 'Tayla.'
'Uh - hi, it's Vern.'
'Vern?'
'Vern Little - remember me?'
'Vern Little? Like, gee5 …' As she speaks, you hear the other girl in quiet hysterics nearby.
'You might've seen me on the news, Vernon Gregory Little - from Martirio?'
'Like, I'm real sorry - I heard about the massacre6 and all, but I usually only, like, watch cable, you know?'
'Anal Intruder Channel,' squeals7 the other girl.
'Fuck off, Chrissie, God.'
'Uh - well, I'm the messy-haired dude, from outside the senior party that time - I kept back some stuff of yours …'
'Oh hey, Vern. I'm sorry - you took care of me that night, like, boy, did I overdo8 it or what!'
'Hell, no big deal,' I say. In the background you hear her kick the other girl out of the room. Pause for giggles while she does it.
'Well it was really, like - anything could've happened to me, you know?' I push some spit around my mouth, imagine some things that could've happened to her. 'So how'd you get my number?' she asks.
'It's a long story - thing is, I'm coming over to Houston, I thought maybe we could grab a coffee or something.'
'Gee, Vern, I'm like, wow, you know? Maybe next time?'
'But, what about lunchtime, or something?'
'See, my cousin's coming over, and it's just like, whatever, a girl thing, you know? Anyway, it's real sweet of you to call …'
She utters the winding-up words, just like that. Then comes an awkward gap as she waits for the corresponding ending from me. A spike9 of horror makes me gamble.
'Taylor, listen - I just got out of jail, I'm on the run. I wanted to tell you some stuff before I disappear, you know?'
'Holy shit, like - what happened?
'I can't really talk on the phone.'
'God, but you seemed like, wow, you know, such a quiet guy.'
'Maybe not so quiet, as it turns out. Not so damn quiet anymore.'
'God, but you're only, like - fourteen, no?'
'Uh, seventeen actually, now, these days. So yeah, I guess I must've just snapped, against the injustice10 and all.'
'Oh my God . . .'
I stand at the phones, flick11 my eyes around the terminal, and wait for the bait to drop. I wait in the name of all the conclusive12 knowledge, collected throughout the history of the world, that says girls just can't resist bad boys. You know it, I know it. Everybody knows it, even if you ain't allowed to say it anymore.
'Vern, maybe I could, like - whatever, you know? I mean it's like, God. D'you know the Galleria in Houston?'
'Not a whole lot.'
'See, I have to be at Victoria's Secret around two - I could, like, catch you out front, on Westheimer or whatever.'
'Victoria's Secret?' I trample13 my tongue.
She giggles. 'I know, it's so embarrassing - I'm supposed to be, like, underwear shopping, I can't believe I just invited you.'
'I'll wear shades.'
'Whatever,' she says, laughing. 'Are you, like - in a car?'
'I'll take a cab.'
'Whatever, look - there's like this inflatable octopus14 out front of the Galleria, some kind of promotion15 - I'll keep an eye out around quarter of two.'
See how things work? First I'm like a skidmark on her mouthpiece, and she wants to wind up the call. But see what happens now I'm in trouble. See the awesome16 power of trouble. Trouble fucken rocks.
The Houston bus costs twenty-two bucks17. I'm hungry, but I only have forty-four bucks fifty left. Getting both of us to Mexico will cost more than that. When my bus pulls into Houston, just before one o'clock, I head to the phones and look up 'Cash' in the yellow pages. My music has to go. A cab drives me miles away, to a pawnbroker18 where I get offered twenty-five bucks for my two-hundred-dollar stereo, which I accept because the taxi meter is running, and already cost me ten bucks, which I had to pay up-front as soon as the driver knew we were going to a fucken pawnbroker. I also get offered twenty-five cents apiece for my discs. I sneer19 at the pawnbroker, and he gets mad. Real red ass on the pawnbroker, actually, as we say down here.
Then the cab drives me along this fancy set of highways, past big reflector buildings, to the Galleria. I try not to imagine what Taylor'll be wearing, or how she'll smell. Better not to get fixated on anything that leaves room to be bummed20 if it's not true. I might focus on those same shorts from before, then find her in jeans or something, and lose the wind out of my sails.
I distract myself by watching the driver. He's a career driver, whose body and ass are permanently21 molded into the shape of the seat. He seems okay, kind of big and whiskery, with a relaxed smile. Reminds you of Brian Dennehy, from those ole movies, like with the alien eggs in the pool. A bunch of us at school used to wish Brian Dennehy could be our dad, same way we wished Barbara Bush could be our granny. Not like my snotty ole nana. But my ole man was still alive when I saw those movies, and I felt I kind of betrayed him by wishing Brian Dennehy could be my dad. Maybe that percentage of negative energy contributed to his death. Who knows?
The cab turns onto Westheimer, which is like four Gurie Streets stapled23 together. I try not to be conscious of my pulse, but it goes up anyway. There's no fucken cure for that, by the way. In movies, your pulse goes up when you want it up - out here it just does its own thing. Your fucken pulse is the death of cool. I take some deep breaths as this humongous mall appears alongside us; a large blow-up octopus sways on some ropes by the sidewalk. My balls crawl up my throat.
'Right there, by the octopus,' I tell the driver.
The figure of a young woman stands by the road. I slouch low, hoping she doesn't see me yet. I hate it when you go to meet somebody, and they spot you twenty fucken miles away, and just stay staring at you. You feel like your steps bounce too much, or your shoulders are too dangly24 or something. You hold the same dumb smile.
It's Taylor Figueroa. She's in a short khaki skirt. Her legs and arms flow warm and careless under sparkling brown hair. Her eyebrows25 flash up when she sees the cab. I feel sick to my fucken stomach.
'That'll be seven-eighty,' says the driver.
The cool of her smell hits me as soon as the door opens, but the cab seat is so low and busted26 that I make it look like climbing Mount Everest to get out. Taylor freeze-frames her smile while I haul my pack across the eastern face of the fucken cab. Then I drop my wallet in the road. She folds her arms while I scramble27 for a banknote, and hand it to the guy.
'That's seven-eighty,' says the driver, 'and this is only five.' He holds the bill out the window like it's a turd.
Sprinklers of sweat pop up on my forehead. I fumble28 through my pocket for change, but the pocket's so tight I can hardly get my hand in at all. Van Damme would rip the back of his hand off rather than squirm like this, he'd punch the driver's fucken lights out. I finally just pass the guy a ten from my billfold.
'Keep the change,' I tell him, all nonchalant. Taylor leans over to kiss my cheek, but stops again, mid-air. The goddam driver waves a banknote out the window.
'Don't forget your five.'
'I said keep the change.'
'You sure? Thanks, thanks a lot …'
Fuck. Now Taylor's embarrassed. I'm embarrassed, and half fucken bankrupt, and at the end of it all, Taylor just scratches the kiss right out of the scene. I catch a closer blast of her perfume though, which has a hook in it, the barb22 of a real woman, in the sense of more complicated panties, probably silk, full cut, with lace panels and all. Maybe in a blue half-tone, or a kind of flesh tone. I'm slain29 by her.
'Hi,' she says, leading me past the octopus. 'You robbed a bank, huh?'
'Yeah - see this backpack?'
I just sound weary now, like a regular smeghead on a flat Houston day. Sweat drips from my nose. Taylor looks me over. Her deep brown eyes narrow.
'You okay?'
'I guess so.'
I just sound like I have no desire left to impress anybody, but in this new depression a curious thing happens. A life thing. What happens, I think, is that we establish a real kind of contact, like in a movie or something. She just saw me make a complete asshole of myself, and she knows I know it. And it's as if she relaxes some, and I relax along with her. Like the horse stopped having to do math on stage. It accidentally makes me genuine, I guess, and exposes me as an ole fuckaway dog, all beat up to hell. She leads me quietly into the mall, respecting the swirling30 ink of trouble, and other people's tears, around my soul.
'So what's up, you dirty boy?' she teases on the escalator.
'Shit, I don't know where to start.'
'I'll drag it out of you.' She slips her dry little hand into my bunch of wet finger-meats, and coaxes31 me through the crowd. 'We'll check for my cousin, then maybe grab a juice, get private.'
A juice. Grab a private juice. What a woman. I watch her neat little buttocks stretch the fabric32 of her skirt, left, right, left, without a panty-line in sight, not to the naked eye. I'm so fucken in love with her I can't even picture her panties.
We reach the lingerie store, where all this hard-core, shiny kind of underwear is displayed out front. I'm not so interested in all that burlesque33 kind of stuff, to be honest. Simple cotton bikinis for me, like a girl wears when she doesn't expect you to go there. I look around at the women in the store. You can tell they fucken pray for you to go there.
'I don't see her,' says Taylor, craning over the displays. 'Typical. You want to go talk? I'll understand if you don't …'
'Sure, but you'll have to keep some pretty heavy secrets. I'll understand if you can't.' Girls just love secrets.
'Whatever.' She wrinkles her bitty nose. 'Like, I don't need to know where the bodies are buried or anything.' She flashes her teeth, and walks me to a fancy-looking cafeteria across the concourse.
'Hell, there's no bodies or anything,' I say.
As she docks her ass onto a barstool, I notice she's not totally airbrushed after all - a couple of her teeth are crooked34, and you can detect a recent zit under her make-up. I melt like a wad into Kleenex. She's so fucken real, so here.
'So, like - are you guilty?' she asks.
'Nah, I don't figure.'
'Is it, like, robbery or something?'
'Murder.'
'Eek,' her face crumples35 like she just stepped in puke. 'Don't you think it'd be better to, like, stay and fight it out?'
'Nah, the way things're stacked, I have to disappear awhile.'
Her eyebrows scrunch36 in sympathy. What I realize as I melt into her syrup38 is that I have to steer39 talk away from the slime, and start to build a platform of excitement to tempt40 her along. Order tequilas or something, kiss her on the mouth.
'Tay,' I frown, 'this might seem sudden, but - I have to ask you something real important.'
Her face stiffens41, like faces do when there's an incoming choice of shit. Right away I know it's the wrong approach.
'Cash?' she goes. 'Like, if you need a loan …'
A waiter turns up. 'What can I get y'all?' Taylor and my eyes take a moment to separate.
'I'll have a guava licuado,' she says.
'Uh - make it two,' I say. Tequilas my fucken ass. After the waiter leaves, I try another angle. 'Heck, Tay, I'm being real selfish here - I didn't even ask how you're doing …'
She rattles42 both my hands. 'You're killing43 me, like, God. I'm just here, finishing this thing, I tried out for TV but didn't get casted yet - just like, whatever, you know?'
I smile, and suck warmth from the moment to mold into a platform of romance. Then she flicks44 back her hair and drops her eyes.
'And I'm seeing this doctor, can you believe it? He's an older guy, obviously, but I'm like sooo in love - he's the reason I'm shopping today, him and my cousin's new man are such panty-pooches.'
I start to hear her through a distant echo-tunnel, you know how you do. Then Mom's voice scurries45 from my mouth.
'Hey - wow.'
'God, I can't believe I just told you that! Anyway he drives a Corvette, like an original Stingray whatever, and in November we're doing Colorado for my birthday …'
'Hey, wow.'
O-so-soft-and-gentle-on-your-skin Fate now makes me die squealing46 for every pixel of her being, and with each turn of her smile, every token of how remote my dream is from her mind, I fucken die knowing this is barely the germ of an infection for a thousand miserable47 deaths.
Then Taylor stands off her stool, and waves up the concourse. 'Hey, there's my cousin - Leona! Loni!' she calls. 'Over here!'
Jesus fuck. It's Leona Dunt from back home. I don't know if Lally's with her. Fuck. I explode off my stool, snatching up the backpack. Leona stands posing by the lingerie store, she hasn't looked over yet. 'What's up?' Taylor asks me.
'I have to run.'
'But - what were you going to ask me?'
'Please, please, please, don't breathe a word of this to Leona.'
'You know Leona?'
'Yeah, please.' My Nikes fire me onto the concourse.
'Vern!' she calls, as I vanish into the crowd. I glance over my shoulder and capture her image forever; she's there like a lost kitten, lips open, eyebrows scrunched48. 'Be careful,' she mouths silently. 'Call me.'
I fester and decompose49 in the back of a Greyhound bus bound for McAllen, under the tumor50 light, the twisted lava-lamp of sky, just a shell of meaningless brand names, a shelter for maggots and worms. Vernon Gone-To-Hell Little. And I didn't call my mom at all, you guessed it. I didn't even eat all day. All I did was hammer myself to a cross.
Screen One in my brain plays endless warm close-ups of Taylor. I try not to watch, I try to stay in the lobby and avoid it. But the thing's right there, doing big rotations51 of milky52 ass. Screen Two runs that other timeless classic, Mom, or, Honey I Butt-Fucked the Family. I ain't trying to watch that one either. All I watch is a double-exposure of my ole goofy face in the window, as infinite distance rolls by outside; spongy, darkened distance, like rug-lint balls on wet graham cracker53. Power lines and fence posts read past like sheet music, but the tunes54 are fucken shit.
This is the scenario56 when I get the day's clincher, the one I forgot to expect. A song gets attached to Taylor. Just when you think you're dicked to the maximum extent of natural law, something always comes up that you forgot about. I know the routine from here. Everybody knows deep down there's no way to kill a Fate song once it's stuck. They're like fucken herpes. The only way to wash them out is to buy the song and play it day and night, until it doesn't mean anything anymore. Only forty gazillion years it takes. Everybody knows it, but I don't remember being taught that little pearl back in school, about the destructive power of Fate songs. Correct me if maybe I was absent that day, or if that was the day I spent cleaning the yard on account of liberating58 frogs from the lab. No, as I remember it, we were too busy trying to assimilate fucken Surinam to be taught anything of actual value to our lives, like Fate songs for instance.
I hear Taylor's song through the 'Tss, tss, tss' of a guy's earphones, a couple of rows up. 'Better Man' is the tune55, by Pearl Jam. I don't even know the words to the song, but you can bet I'll spend the next eighty years in hell making every line fit my situation. Even if it ends up being about fucken groundhogs in space or something.
Worst of all, it ain't even a pure sex song. No dirty little bass59 riffs running up and down the back, swinging and plucking; nothing masturbation can relieve. This ole tune drags you screaming from her panties with the fatal wrench60 of something bigger than perky riffs. Anodized, gritty wanting and yearning61. The deathly heem of love.
A sob62 pops in my throat. I choke it, and look around for a harmless visual distraction63, but all I see is a stocky young woman with a baby, a few seats up. The baby is pulling the woman's hair, and she's faking this look of terror.
'Oh no,' she says, 'how can you do that to Mommy?'
She pretends to bawl64, but the baby laughs and gurgles like a psycho, and pulls even harder. I'm witnessing a fresh knife being laid into a brand-new soul. A training dagger65. A maternity66 blade.
Here's his mom quietly opening up the control incision67, completely innocent in her dumbness to the world.
'Oh no, you've killed Mommy, Mommy's gone!' She plays dead.
The little guy giggles for a minute, but only that long. Then he senses something's wrong. She ain't waking up. He killed her, she abandoned him, just like that, over a pull of hair. He pokes68 her with his finger, then he gets ready to bawl. And there you have it: he takes the handle in his own tiny hands and pulls in his first blade, right up to the hilt. Just to bring her back. And sure enough, with the splash of his first tear, she wakes right up.
'Ha, ha, I'm still here! Ha, ha, it's Mommy!'
Ha, ha, that's the Scheme of Things.
'Drrrrrrr,' the motorcoach fangs69 into a violet dusk, a bitter projectile70 full of knives and Vernon. I know I'm just being sour about shit. Tell me I'm just being sour about shit, on account of everything. I know it. But I just get this feeling in my head, like the Voice of Ages that says, 'This is no way for a young man to spend his learning years.'
Taylor will have finished shopping by now. She's probably already in this fucker's Stingray, with her skirt up around her waist. As I picture it, her grown-up panties become skimpy just to finish me off. Now they're reckless bikini numbers, tight and fast, with a tiny bow on the waist elastic. They slash71 and slice me. A wet patch the size of a dime72 glistens73 on her mound74, and if you take a silky buttock in each hand, lift her off the seat, and snuff your face up close, you only whiff the bittiest thumbtack of tamarindo jerky, just a pin-prick. That's how squeaky clean she is, even on a hot lathery75 day like today. Squeaky clean, like a doll. Oh Taylor, oh fucken Tay.
The unexpected thing when the bus rolls into McAllen is the stillness. The driver switches off the engine, the door goes 'Pschsssss,' and the world just parks. It's nearly eleven o'clock and there's a new silence, loud with the creasing76 of clothes, as I rise out of the seat. It's like waking from a fever, specially77 after all these venomous thoughts. I follow other unfolded travelers to the front of the bus, where a smoky breath meets me at the door. Maybe a tang of freedom. The border is less than ten miles away.
I savor78 the glassy crunch37 of my New Jacks79 on the concrete, and with it grows a feeling that at least I'm still alive, still have my arms and legs, and the dreams that fucken kill me. And twenty-one dollars and thirty cents. The mostly empty bus terminal shines a promise of comfort, so I shuffle80 over to look for a coffee, or maybe a sandwich, anything to stop my bowel81 cells from applying for other jobs in the body. A Mexican boy sweeps the floor by the doors, and two ole ladies doze82 on chairs next to some boxes tied with rope. Upholstery weeps flea-powder and farts. Then my eye catches a TV at the back. It's the news. My brain says, 'Don't fucken go there.' I fucken go there.
'New shock for the Central Texas community of Martirio,' says the screen. Red and blue lights flash off the slick of a recent shower. Vaine Gurie stumbles up a driveway near the edge of town. She wears a tracksuit, and shields her face from camera lights. Another big woman helps her through a screen-door, then turns to the cameras.
'Everybody's just devastated83 - I ask y'all to pray for our community at this very difficult time.'
Cut to daylight. Crime tape flaps wearily across the Johnson road, around where my journey began last night. Lally enters the frame, walking towards the camera. His arm is in a sling84. 'I was lucky to escape the scene. With a broken collarbone, and serious cuts and bruises85, I can only be thankful I was here to witness a crime that dispels86 all doubt as to the cause of recent events in Martirio.' The stringy man from the morgue hovers87 over a corpse88 wrapped in plastic. Troopers haul it behind Lally to a waiting van. 'Barry Enoch Gurie was not so lucky. His body fell less than a hundred yards from the practice range of Martirio's elite89 new SWAT team - a team he was to have joined only hours after he was brutally90 gunned down with his own weapon.'
A picture appears of Barry as a cadet, shiny-eyed, hoping blindly into the future behind the camera lens. Lally returns with a deeper scowl91. 'I was an unfortunate witness to the shots, shots that cut short the life of a man who overcame childhood autism to become a glowing star in law management, an officer described by colleagues and townsfolk alike as a true human being. As federal forces descend92 upon the stricken district, attention now turns to the whereabouts of confirmed killer93 Vernon Gregory Little …'
My school picture appears, followed by footage of me leaving the courthouse with Pam. Then a stranger in thick glasses comes on, wearing overalls94 and rubber gloves. 'The forensic95 environment is near perfect,' he says. 'We've already identified the tread of a sports shoe - an unusual kind of shoe for these parts - and there's evidence of tracks being covered up around the body's resting-place.'
Lally returns. 'The task of securing the state's borders and highways will continue long into the night - authorities warn the suspect may be armed, and should not be approached …'
I slap a stone eye around the terminal. The janitor96 sweeps halfheartedly in front of the restrooms. Behind a counter, a ticket clerk taps listlessly at his keyboard. I take a measured walk between them to the doors, then aim for the dark of the road and run, fly back to the highway.
I cross the highway at the darkest point, and pound along its shadow side, invisible, just two clear veins97 throbbing98 slime and lightning. Up ahead a road sign points to Mexico. Traffic trickles99 past it. I don't even know how far I have to go, I just run till I'm dead, then limp till I can run again. It's after midnight when the sparks die under my feet. I slow to a shuffle, and strangle a hiss100 in my throat. Waves loom101 at my back, crested102 waves which instead of foam103 spill flies, flies I have to kill, thoughts of defeat in a grubby swarm104. Jesus comes with them, waving, but he's engulfed105, drowning, gulping106 flies that join with the night to claim all his colors, return him to black. I stop, the way a rock stops that never moved. My head hangs buzzing in the dark, and when I raise it up, after a century's pause, I see a glow up ahead. I stumble forward, and see the glow become a glare, a kind of high-beam extravaganza in the middle of nowhere.
'International Bridge - Puente Internacional,' says a sign. 'Mexico.'
From here the border looks like Steven Spielberg built it, a blast of arctic light framed in darkness. I pull on my jacket, though it ain't cold at all, and attempt to slick back my hair. I stride the last few hundred yards of home.
Lines of trucks stretch into the dark on the other side of the bridge, cars heavy with people pass through the middle. There's plenty of traffic on foot, even now, and no sign of a roadblock, except for the regular border checkpoints. I step onto the bridge knowing I step into my dream, pinning its fucken hem57 with my foot, for me to climb aboard. The redemption, the souvenirs, the lazy panties in fragrant107 sunshine.
You can already tell one thing: the clean concrete highway ends at the borderline, it's a different country after that. Tall, small people flow around me like tumbling store-displays, chubby108 types in denim109 carve between them, with all the confidence of home. Mexicans. The faces seem cautious, like you might interrupt a promise made to them. The hem of their dream hangs over this bridge too, that's why. You can taste it. I pass by an ole man wearing Ray-Bans, a Baywatch cap, a Wowboys jacket, fluorescent110 green Nikes, and carrying a Nintendo box tied with South Park bedsheets. Makes me stand out like a fucken shaved wiener, even aside from being six inches taller than everybody.
Checkpoint buildings sprawl111 on the Mexican side, officials in uniform stop cars and search them. I stand up my jacket collar, and try to lose myself in the flow of people. I nearly make it too, until I hear this voice.
'Joven,' calls a Mexican officer. I start to scuttle112. 'Joven - Mister!' I look around. He holds up the flat of his hand.
收听单词发音 |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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giggles
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| n.咯咯的笑( giggle的名词复数 )；傻笑；玩笑；the giggles 止不住的格格笑v.咯咯地笑( giggle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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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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gee
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| n.马；int.向右！前进！，惊讶时所发声音；v.向右转 | |
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massacre
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| n.残杀，大屠杀；v.残杀，集体屠杀 | |
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squeals
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| n.长而尖锐的叫声( squeal的名词复数 )v.长声尖叫，用长而尖锐的声音说( squeal的第三人称单数 ) | |
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overdo
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| vt.把...做得过头，演得过火 | |
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spike
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| n.长钉，钉鞋；v.以大钉钉牢，使...失效 | |
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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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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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conclusive
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| adj.最后的，结论的；确凿的，消除怀疑的 | |
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trample
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| vt.踩，践踏；无视，伤害，侵犯 | |
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octopus
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| n.章鱼 | |
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promotion
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| n.提升，晋级；促销，宣传 | |
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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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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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pawnbroker
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| n.典当商，当铺老板 | |
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sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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bummed
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| 失望的，沮丧的 | |
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permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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barb
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| n.（鱼钩等的）倒钩，倒刺 | |
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stapled
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| v.用钉书钉钉住( staple的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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24
dangly
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| 悬摆的，摆晃的 | |
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25
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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26
busted
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| adj. 破产了的，失败了的，被降级的，被逮捕的，被抓到的 动词bust的过去式和过去分词 | |
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27
scramble
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| v.爬行，攀爬，杂乱蔓延，碎片，片段，废料 | |
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28
fumble
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| vi.笨拙地用手摸、弄、接等，摸索 | |
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29
slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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30
swirling
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| v.旋转，打旋( swirl的现在分词 ) | |
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31
coaxes
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的第三人称单数 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱 | |
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32
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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33
burlesque
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| v.嘲弄，戏仿；n.嘲弄，取笑，滑稽模仿 | |
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34
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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35
crumples
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| 压皱，弄皱( crumple的第三人称单数 )； 变皱 | |
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36
scrunch
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| v.压，挤压；扭曲（面部） | |
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37
crunch
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| n.关键时刻；艰难局面；v.发出碎裂声 | |
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38
syrup
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| n.糖浆，糖水 | |
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39
steer
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| vt.驾驶，为…操舵；引导；vi.驾驶 | |
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40
tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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41
stiffens
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| （使）变硬，（使）强硬( stiffen的第三人称单数 ) | |
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42
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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43
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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44
flicks
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| （尤指用手指或手快速地）轻击( flick的第三人称单数 )； （用…）轻挥； （快速地）按开关； 向…笑了一下（或瞥了一眼等） | |
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45
scurries
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| v.急匆匆地走( scurry的第三人称单数 ) | |
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46
squealing
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| v.长声尖叫，用长而尖锐的声音说( squeal的现在分词 ) | |
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47
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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48
scrunched
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| v.发出喀嚓声( scrunch的过去式和过去分词 )；蜷缩；压；挤压 | |
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49
decompose
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| vi.分解；vt.（使）腐败，（使）腐烂 | |
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50
tumor
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| n.（肿）瘤，肿块(英)tumour | |
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51
rotations
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| 旋转( rotation的名词复数 )； 转动； 轮流； 轮换 | |
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52
milky
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| adj.牛奶的，多奶的；乳白色的 | |
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53
cracker
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| n.（无甜味的）薄脆饼干 | |
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54
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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55
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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56
scenario
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| n.剧本，脚本；概要 | |
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57
hem
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| n.贴边，镶边；vt.缝贴边；(in)包围，限制 | |
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58
liberating
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| 解放，释放( liberate的现在分词 ) | |
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59
bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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60
wrench
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| v.猛拧；挣脱；使扭伤；n.扳手；痛苦，难受 | |
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61
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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62
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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63
distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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64
bawl
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| v.大喊大叫，大声地喊，咆哮 | |
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65
dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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66
maternity
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| n.母性，母道，妇产科病房；adj.孕妇的，母性的 | |
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67
incision
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| n．切口，切开 | |
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68
pokes
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| v.伸出( poke的第三人称单数 )；戳出；拨弄；与（某人）性交 | |
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69
fangs
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| n.（尤指狗和狼的）长而尖的牙( fang的名词复数 )；（蛇的）毒牙；罐座 | |
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70
projectile
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| n.投射物，发射体；adj.向前开进的；推进的；抛掷的 | |
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71
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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72
dime
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| n.（指美国、加拿大的钱币）一角 | |
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73
glistens
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| v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的第三人称单数 ) | |
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74
mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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75
lathery
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| adj.肥皂泡的，充满泡沫的 | |
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76
creasing
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| （使…）起折痕，弄皱( crease的现在分词 )； （皮肤）皱起，使起皱纹； 挑檐 | |
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77
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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78
savor
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| vt.品尝，欣赏；n.味道，风味；情趣，趣味 | |
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79
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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80
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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81
bowel
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| n.肠(尤指人肠)；内部，深处 | |
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82
doze
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| v.打瞌睡；n.打盹，假寐 | |
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83
devastated
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| v.彻底破坏( devastate的过去式和过去分词)；摧毁；毁灭；在感情上（精神上、财务上等）压垮adj.毁坏的；极为震惊的 | |
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84
sling
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| vt.扔；悬挂；n.挂带；吊索，吊兜；弹弓 | |
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85
bruises
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| n.瘀伤，伤痕，擦伤( bruise的名词复数 ) | |
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86
dispels
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| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的第三人称单数 ) | |
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87
hovers
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| 鸟( hover的第三人称单数 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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88
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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89
elite
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| n.精英阶层；实力集团；adj.杰出的，卓越的 | |
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90
brutally
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| adv.残忍地，野蛮地，冷酷无情地 | |
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91
scowl
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| vi.(at)生气地皱眉，沉下脸，怒视；n.怒容 | |
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92
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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93
killer
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| n.杀人者，杀人犯，杀手，屠杀者 | |
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94
overalls
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| n.（复）工装裤；长罩衣 | |
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95
forensic
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| adj.法庭的，雄辩的 | |
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96
janitor
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| n.看门人，管门人 | |
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97
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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98
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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99
trickles
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| n.细流( trickle的名词复数 )；稀稀疏疏缓慢来往的东西v.滴( trickle的第三人称单数 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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100
hiss
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| v.发出嘶嘶声；发嘘声表示不满 | |
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101
loom
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| n.织布机，织机；v.隐现，(危险、忧虑等)迫近 | |
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102
crested
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| adj.有顶饰的，有纹章的，有冠毛的v.到达山顶（或浪峰）( crest的过去式和过去分词 )；到达洪峰，达到顶点 | |
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103
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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104
swarm
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| n.(昆虫)等一大群；vi.成群飞舞；蜂拥而入 | |
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105
engulfed
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| v.吞没，包住( engulf的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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106
gulping
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| v.狼吞虎咽地吃，吞咽( gulp的现在分词 )；大口地吸（气）；哽住 | |
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107
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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108
chubby
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| adj.丰满的，圆胖的 | |
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109
denim
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| n.斜纹棉布；斜纹棉布裤，牛仔裤 | |
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110
fluorescent
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| adj.荧光的，发出荧光的 | |
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111
sprawl
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| vi.躺卧，扩张，蔓延；vt.使蔓延；n.躺卧，蔓延 | |
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112
scuttle
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| v.急赶，疾走，逃避；n.天窗；舷窗 | |
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