The border officer takes his time strutting1 over from the checkpoint. His skin is darker than a lot of folks down here, and strings2 of gray-black hair are greased onto his mostly bald head, like with axle grease or something. Kind of a gross little dude, actually.
'Passport please,' he says. He looks pretty serious about things, and on top of everything he now has these gold teeth. Black eyes scald me.
'Uh - passport?'
'Yes, passport please.'
'Uh - I'm American.'
'Well - no, I'm an American, visiting your beautiful country and all …'
He stares at me. He's going to default to some nasty official type of shit, I can smell it coming.
'Follow me,' he says, and marches me back to the main building.
Inside smells of shoe polish. It's a kind of Jurassic Park for office supplies, with all these ole desks, and Chinese-restaurant kind of chairs, lit by lonely-looking supermarket lighting5. A fan clicks in one corner. The effect is something between a courthouse and one of those public-health waiting rooms you see on TV, specially6 for the number of ole Mexican ladies in here. Don't fucken tell anyone I said that, though. I'm not crazy about the effect of it. The official ushers7 me to a desk, and sits behind it, all straight-backed, like he's the president of South America or something, like the borderline is the crack of his fucken ass3.
'You have identification?' he asks.
'Uh - not really.'
He creaks back into his chair, spreading his hands wide, like he's about to point out the most obvious fact in the fucken universe. 'You can't enter Mexico without identification.' He tightens8 his mouth across, for the Most Obvious Fact effect.
Some lies form an orderly line at the back of my throat. I decide to go for tried and tested horseshit, which, if you're me, is the Dumb Kid routine. I cook up some family, fast. 'I have to meet my parents, see? They came down earlier, but I had to stay back and come down later, and now they're over there waiting, like, they're probably worried and all.'
'You parents on vacation?'
'Uh, yeah, we're going on vacation, you know.'
'Where you parents?'
'They're already in Mexico, waiting for me.'
'Where?'
Fuck. It's fatal when you get a guy like this, take note. How it works is that he'll narrow my bullshit down, make it slither to the spout9 end of the funnel10 of truth. See how the lie can start out all vague, like, 'Yeah, they're in the northern hemisphere,' or something? Well now he'll narrow it down, and narrow it down, until you end up having to give a goddam room number. Where the fuck are my parents?
'Uh - Tijuana,' I say, nodding.
'Ti-juana?' He shakes his head. 'This the wrong way for Tijuana - is the other side of Mexico.'
'No, well that's right, but they came the other way, see, and I was over here, so I have to go across and meet them. You know?'
He sits with his face pointed11 down, but his eyes pointed up, the way folks do when they don't buy your story. 'Where in Tijuana?'
'Uh - at the hotel.'
'What hotel?'
'The, uh - heck, I have it written somewhere …' I fumble12 with my pack.
'You don't enter Mexico today,' says the official. 'Better call you parents, and they come for you.'
'Well it's kind of late to call now - I was supposed to be there already. Anyway, I thought our two countries were in a pact13 or something, I thought Americans could walk right over.'
He shrugs14. 'How I know you American?'
'Hell, you just have to look at me - I mean, I'm American all right, sure I'm American.' I hold out my hands, trying to copy the Most Obvious Fucken Fact effect. He leans forward onto his desk, and levels his eyes at me.
'Better call you parents. Tonight you stay in McAllen, tomorrow they come for you.'
I do the only possible thing at this end of the funnel of truth. I pretend he just gave me a really smart idea. 'Hey, yeah - I'll use the phone and get my parents over, thanks, thanks a lot.'
I limp to an ole phone on the wall, and pretend to put coins in it. Then I fuck around in my pack like a total dork-hole. I even pretend to talk on the goddam phone. Really, it's this kind of shit that brings up the whole psycho argument. After chewing the fat with my so-called parents, I sit on an empty stretch of bench, drifting into this endless purgatory15 while the fan squeaks16 like a sackful of rats. I sit until three in the morning, then three-thirty, horny for cool bedsheets. You know the one voice in your head that makes sense, like your internal nana or whatever? Mine just says, 'Grab a burger and cop some Zs, until it all makes a little more sense.'
I'm distracted by a flash of red at the window. Then blue. A patrol car pulls up outside. Troopers' hats appear. American troopers. I twitch17 off the bench, and shuffle18 past a wrinkled ole man who dozes19 against a filing cabinet. He could've fucken been here since he was a boy. In desperation, I go back to the official's desk. He stands talking to another uniformed Mexican. They turn to me.
'Sir, se?or - I really need to cross the border and get some sleep. I'm just an American on vacation …' Through the corner of my eye I see another trooper pass by the window. He nurses an assault rifle at the entrance, and says something to his partner, then a Mexican officer arrives and talks to them both. The troopers nod, and step away.
'You parents coming?' my officer asks me.
'Uh - they can't make it right now.'
He shrugs and turns back to his partner.
'Look,' I say, 'I'm just a regular guy, you can check my wallet and everything …'
A different kind of shine comes to his eyes. He motions for my billfold. I hand it over. He pulls out my cash-card, arranging it on the desk with an official flourish, then he sits, takes the billfold to his lap, and checks out the twenty-dollar bill.
'This all the money you travel with?'
'Uh - that and my card.'
He picks my card off the desktop20 and turns it gently in his fingers, pausing at the side that says 'VG Little'. He chews his lip. I get a sudden inkling that Mexico might have different Fate than home. What I think I see in his black eyes is a shine that admits we're ole dogs together in a lumpy game. A shine of conspiracy21. Then, in a jackrabbit flash, he palms the twenty out of my wallet into his desk drawer.
'Welcome to Mexico,' he says.
The famous actor Brian Dennehy would stand quiet, narrow his eyes right now, with unspoken respect for the secluded22 dealings of men. He might rest a hand on the guy's back and say, 'Give my love to Maria.' Me, I snatch up my pack and fuck off. The troopers are thirty yards away on the American side, talking on their radios. I turn the other way and vanish into the night of my dream.
Picture a wall of cancer clouds sliced clean across the border, cut with the Blade of God, because Mexican Fate won't tolerate any of that shit down here. Intimate sounds spike23 the tide of travelers, the new brothers and sisters who spin me south down the highway like a pebble24, helpless but brave to the wave.
Reynosa is the town on the Mexican side of the bridge. It's big, it's messy, and there's a whiff of clowns and zebras in the wings, like any surprise could happen, even though it's the dead of night back home. Night doesn't die in Mexico. If the world was flat, you just know the edge would look like this. Natural law is suspended here, you can tell. Border traffic starts to break up in the town, and I leave the highway to zigzag25 through shadowy side streets, until I come to an alley26 where stalls tumble with music, and food glistens27 under naked lightbulbs. One kid at a food stall accepts a buck28 in coins for some tacos, which don't even smudge my throat on the way down. The food exhausts me. I sloosh back out of the alley like a knot of melted cows, and travel for another hour before logic29 catches up with me. I know I have to put some distance between me and the border, but I'm fucked without cash, and dead on my feet. Jesus wisps around me in fragments, maybe happy to be home in the land of his blood, maybe vengeful for the foreigners that killed him. I beg him for peace.
I find a dark nook by the edge of town, a bunker between houses, with a view of empty chaparral beyond, and settle against a wall to spin some thoughts. One house window has a curtain that waves in the breeze. As soon as their fucken dog quiets down, Taylor's body gets wrapped in the curtain like a Goddess, her tones flash milky30 through the lace bunched between her legs. Then she's in the dirt with me. Her hair is wild on the first day of our escape together; we lick and play into an anesthetic31 sleep, just conscious of life collapsing32 around us in grainy pieces.
I wake late next morning, Thursday, and find myself in a strange place, sixteen days after the moment that ripped my life in two. I know I have to find money to carry on. I could try Taylor, but first I need to be sure she didn't squeal33 on me to fucken Leona Dunt. I also have to call home and straighten things out, but Mom's phone will probably be bugged34, and anyway, on thirty American cents I ain't calling fucken nobody. I pick up my backpack, and lope to the highway out of town - Monterrey is one of the places it heads to. I'm glad to move on. I mean, Reynosa may have ended up having an Astrodome, or a petting zoo or something, but between you and me, I fucken doubt it.
Dirty trucks tilt36 down the highway, with all kinds of extra lights and antennas37, like mobile cathedrals or something. I follow them on foot for now. I just want to be alone with my waves. I shuffle, then lope, then limp all day long until my shadow starts to reach for the far coast, and blobs of cactus38 grow mushy with evening light. I come to a bend in the road that dips downhill, and I get a feeling it's like the borderline to my future. Up ahead is night, but behind me there's color in the sky. It brings a shiver, but a senior thought says: leave the future to Mexican Fate.
As the sky unfurls a drape of stars, important omens39 arrive. A truck idles past with four million hood40 ornaments41, lit up like JC Penney's Christmas tree, and painted with sayings everywhere. It doesn't snag my attention until it's past me, and I see the mud-flaps at the back. Painted on each one is a lazy road that snakes between a beach and a grove42 of palm trees. My beach. Before I can scan the palm trees for panties, the truck pulls onto the wrong side of the road, and coasts downhill toward lights burning in some shambly buildings at the roadside. I guess that's a Mexican turn signal, just moving your vehicle onto the wrong side of the road. Learning: when you see traffic splattered over the front of a Mexican truck, you know it was fucken indicating. I run after it down the hill.
'El alacrán, el alacrán, el alacrán te va picar …' Music twangs out of a bar next to a gas station. The truck parks by the bar, and I watch the driver climb down from the cab. He's smaller than me, with a bunch of growth on his face, and a hefty mustache. He takes off his hat to slide into the roadhouse, cool and straight, like he's wearing guns. Then, when he's nearly inside, he gives his balls a squeeze. A little boy jumps from the truck behind him. I shuffle into the building without touching43 my balls. Nobody seems to mind. Inside, the air's tinged44 with muddy cooking oil from an alien kitchen. The driver stands at a rough wooden bar, and looks around at some tin tables where a couple of other dudes sit hunched45 over their beers. The bartender is Mexican-looking, except that he's white with red hair - go fucken figure.
The kid scampers46 to a table near a wall-mounted TV. Everybody else checks me out as I move to the bar with an idea in my head. A cold beer turns up for the truck driver. I pull a music disc out of my pack, point to it, then to the beer. The bartender frowns, looks the disc over, then thumps47 a cold bottle down in front of me. He hands the disc to the driver; they both nod. I know I should eat before I drink, but how do you say 'Milk and fucken cookies' in Mexican? After a minute, the men motion for my pack, and gently rummage48 through the discs. Their eyes also make the inevitable49 pilgrimage to the New Jacks50 on my feet. Finally, whenever a beer turns up for the truck driver, the bartender automatically looks at me. I nod, and a new beer shows up. My credit's established. I introduce myself. The truck driver flashes some gold through his lips, and raises his bottle.
'Sa-lud! he says.
Don't fucken ask me when the first tequila arrived. Suddenly, later in life, glass-clear skies swim through the open side of the bar, with stars like droplets51 on a spider's web, and I find myself smoking sweet, oval-shaped cigarettes called Delicados, apparently52 from my own pack. I'm loaded off my ass. These guys' mustaches are up where their hair should be, and huge fucken caves are howling underneath53, full of gold and tonsils, just look at them, singing their hearts out. Other folk join in, one of them even kneels. The whole night is snatches of humdinger, me and the boys, yelling, laughing, playing bullfights, pretending to be iguanas55 - I swear you'd load your drawers if you saw this one guy, Antonio, being a fucken iguana54. Dudes hug and bawl56 around me, they become my fathers, my brothers, my sons, in a surge of careless passion that makes back home seem like a fucken Jacuzzi that somebody forgot to switch on.
It must be the same oxygen in the air, the same gravitational suck as back home, but here it's all heated up and spun57 around until nothing, good or bad, matters more than anything else. I mean, home is fucken crawling with Mexicans, but you don't get any of this vibe where I come from. Take Lally; what difference is there in his genes58 that he ended up so fucken twisted? His ole man probably did iguana impersonations, in his day. Nah, Lally caught the back-home bug35. The wanting bug.
Thoughts travel with me to the urinal, which I find is piled high with spent green limes, like they use in their drinks down here. I don't say it deodorizes a hundred percent, like you'd probably need them on the floor, and up the walls, but there's definitely a lemon-fresh effect, to boost up your thoughts. As I spray the limes, I realize there's a kind of immune system back home, to knock off your edges, wash out the feral genes, package you up with your knife. Like, forgive me if it's a crime to even say it, but remember my attorney, ole Abdini? They don't seem to have washed many of his genes out. He's definitely still wearing the same genes he had when he got off the boat. Know why? Because they're make-a-fast-buck genes. Our favorite kind.
Down here, in another space and time, I spend a night among partners with correctly calibrated59 Mexican genes.
An aneurysm wakes me Friday morning. I'm curled up on the floor behind a table. A brick in my head smashes into the back of my eyes when I look around. I give up, and try to focus instead on a rough, lumpy-looking wooden cross on the wall above my head. My Nikes hang from it.
'Mira que te esta esperando Ledesma,' says the truck driver from the bar.
'Cual Ledesma cabrón,' says the bartender.
'Que le des mamones al nabo, buey.'
The driver drops a big ole load. You hear him spit on the floor. I sit up, and spy the boys at the bar straining to focus on the TV. I turn to the screen just as Lally's image is replaced by my school photo. Machine-gun bursts of Spanish rattle60 over the top. The boys don't seem concerned.
'?Que le ves al güero?' says the barman.
'Si el güero eres tu, pendejo.'
'Ni madres.'
'Me cae - tas mas güero que la chingada, tu.'
I know 'chinga' is the fuck word, I learned that at school. There must be a few ways to spin it, but 'chinga' is definitely the mothership of local cussing. Don't even ask me the rest of it. The bartender picks up three shot glasses, wiping each one with the tail of his shirt, and lines them up on the bar. I watch my picture shrink into a corner of the TV screen, while a map of Texas assembles underneath. Photos of strangers scatter61 across it. Glowing red dots appear, like throbbing62 pain sites on an aspirin63 commercial. Places I must've been sighted. Lubbock, Tyler, Austin, San Antonio.
No dot appears at Houston, though. God, I love that girl.
Suddenly, the driver's kid runs out of a back room, and switches channel to some cartoons. I tremble off the floor and make my way to the bar, island-hopping between tables for support. Then I notice something familiar about the bartender. He wears my fucken shirt. And my jeans. I turn to see if it's true about my Nikes, my soul, now hanging from another man's cross. It's fucken true. I stare at the bartender, and he points to my trouser pocket. I look down at myself, past a T-shirt with 'Guchi' printed on it, to some orange pants dangling64 loose above sandals with ole tires for soles. My body is a fucken shrine65. I check the pants pockets. Two hundred pesos in local bills are stuffed inside. Vernon Gates Little, boy. Mexican Fate.
The boys serve up a shot they say will cure me. It stings, and as I drink it, a sunbeam bursts into the room, a blinding shaft66 that frames the crucifix on the wall, and lights up memories of last night. Pelayo, the truck driver, is driving me south, to his home state of Guerrero. To the mud-flaps.
He lifts his kid into the truck as I stumble to the gas station to buy a phonecard. I check the mud-flaps as I pass. Heaven, boy. Between them are painted the words, 'ME VES Y SUFRES.' My vesty surfers, or something. Wait till I tell Taylor.
She answers after five rings.
Tayla.'
'Tay, hi, it's Vern.'
'What, who? Wait up …' Bumping noises come down the line, a man's voice rumbles67, then quiet, like she moved into a closet or something. 'Yeah - who?'
'Vern.'
Dead fucken quiet for around a decade, then she comes back, real close to the receiver. 'Oh my God.'
'Tay, listen …'
'Like, I can't believe I'm talking to a serial68 killer69.'
'Shit, I ain't no killer …'
'Yeah, right - they have bodies mounted up all the way to Victoria!'
'Get outta town,' I say. 'That can't be right.'
'But, like, you killed some people, right? Something happened - right?'
'Tay, please listen …'
'Oh, babe. Poor tortured babe. Where are you?'
'Mexico.'
'God, have you seen back home? It's like Miami Beach, the whole town's wired for cameras, with live web access, twenty-four seven. The company that set it up floated shares and bought Bar-B-Chew Barn - my dad submitted a proposal for a sushi bar, right where the unisex used to be! If it comes off, I'm moving back to manage it - can you believe it?'
I watch credits drip off my card like ketchup70 off a local fly. 'Tay I'm at a public phone …'
Pulsating71 music and crowd noises break onto the line. You hear the man's voice, then Taylor yells back: 'It's my friend from outta town - okay?!' The door slams. She takes a deep breath, like a backwards72 sigh. 'Sorry, I'm, like, real vulnerable right now.'
'Hell, I don't want to …'
'You need cash, right? I have, like, six hundred put away for my vacation.'
'It'd save my fucken life.'
She sniffles, then her voice drops a tone. 'You talkin dirty to me, killer?' I swell73 in my new polyester pants. 'But, hey - where to wire it? Did you stop somewhere? And what if they, like - you know …'
'Shit, I guess that's right.'
'Vern, call me from wherever, like a city, or a big hotel - I'll check with Western Union.'
Her Fate song rings in my ears as I put down the phone. Six hundred bucks74 will probably buy a fucken beach-house down here. I'm boosted up. I get smart, and decide to call Pam. The line clicks. I swat flies while she hoists75 a ton of arm-fat to her head.
'He-llo?'
'Pam, it's Vern …'
'Oh my God - Vernie? We're devastated76 - where are you?'
I detect Mom in the background. I should've known it, they're probably on their nine-millionth burrito by now. Her sniffle wavers up to the phone, but Pam fends77 her off. 'Are you eating properly? Don't tell me you're not eating, don't tell me that, oh Lord …'
Mom snatches the receiver. 'Vernon, it's Mommy.' She immediately breaks into a runaway78 bawl. My eyes soak up with tears, which she feeds off, working up an even raunchier bawl. It's hard, this fucken moment in time.
'Ma - I'm just real sorry.'
'Well Vernon, the detectives say things'll be easier if you just come back.'
'I don't think I can do that.'
'But all this death Vernon, where are you? We know you were sighted near Marshall this morning …'
'Ma, I didn't kill nobody, I ain't running for that. I just have to make good, see? I'll maybe go to Canada, or Surinam or somewhere.' Bad fucken move. Mothers automatically detect the missing word in any multiple choice situation.
'Oh Vernon - Mexico? Oh my God, baby, Mexico?
'I said Canada or Surinam, Ma.'
'Well but the longer you stay away, the more trouble will be waiting for you, don't you see that? Vernon? Mr Abdini says you have a defense79, he's been poking80 around, he found some clues and all, and when Lalito moves back we can be a real family again, just like before.'
'You ain't still waiting on Lally …'
'Well but that old woman at the home never called back, so why not? Vernon? It's love, a woman knows these things.'
'Mom - when did you last speak to Lally?'
'Well he's very busy, you know that.'
I snort in an ironic81 kind of way. I guess it's ironic, when somebody passes off total bullshit as reality. Points drip off my phonecard as if they're points in my soul; I feel like I'll expire when they run out. I make a note to try and keep some points, in case they end up being cross-linked to my soul. Another learning about deep shit: you get real fucken superstitious82.
'Where are you? Just tell me that - Vernon?'
'Ask him when he last ate, Doris.'
'Mom, these credits are gonna run out - what's important is that I'm fine, and I'll call when I get settled.'
'Oh Vernon.' She starts bawling83 again.
I badly want to leave her some cream pie, tell her about my beach-house, and her visit and all. But I just fucken can't. I just kill the call.
收听单词发音 |
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strutting
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| 加固，支撑物 | |
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strings
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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ushers
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| n.引座员( usher的名词复数 )；招待员；门房；助理教员v.引，领，陪同( usher的第三人称单数 ) | |
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tightens
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| 收紧( tighten的第三人称单数 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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spout
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| v.喷出，涌出；滔滔不绝地讲；n.喷管；水柱 | |
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funnel
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| n.漏斗；烟囱；v.汇集 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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fumble
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| vi.笨拙地用手摸、弄、接等，摸索 | |
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pact
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| n.合同，条约，公约，协定 | |
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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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purgatory
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| n.炼狱；苦难；adj.净化的，清洗的 | |
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squeaks
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| n.短促的尖叫声，吱吱声( squeak的名词复数 )v.短促地尖叫( squeak的第三人称单数 )；吱吱叫；告密；充当告密者 | |
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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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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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dozes
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| n.打盹儿，打瞌睡( doze的名词复数 )v.打盹儿，打瞌睡( doze的第三人称单数 ) | |
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desktop
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| n.桌面管理系统程序；台式 | |
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conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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spike
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pebble
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| n.卵石，小圆石 | |
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zigzag
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| n.曲折，之字形；adj.曲折的，锯齿形的；adv.曲折地，成锯齿形地；vt.使曲折；vi.曲折前行 | |
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alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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glistens
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| v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的第三人称单数 ) | |
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buck
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| n.雄鹿，雄兔；v.马离地跳跃 | |
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logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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milky
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| adj.牛奶的，多奶的；乳白色的 | |
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anesthetic
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| n.麻醉剂，麻药；adj.麻醉的，失去知觉的 | |
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collapsing
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| 压扁[平]，毁坏，断裂 | |
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squeal
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| v.发出长而尖的声音；n.长而尖的声音 | |
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bugged
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| vt.在…装窃听器（bug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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bug
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| n.虫子；故障；窃听器；vt.纠缠；装窃听器 | |
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tilt
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| v.(使)倾侧；(使)倾斜；n.倾侧；倾斜 | |
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antennas
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| [生] 触角，触须（antenna的复数形式） | |
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cactus
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| n.仙人掌 | |
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omens
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| n.前兆，预兆( omen的名词复数 ) | |
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hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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42
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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hunched
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| （常指因寒冷、生病或愁苦）耸肩弓身的，伏首前倾的 | |
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scampers
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| v.蹦蹦跳跳地跑，惊惶奔跑( scamper的第三人称单数 ) | |
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thumps
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| n.猪肺病；砰的重击声( thump的名词复数 )v.重击， （指心脏）急速跳动( thump的第三人称单数 ) | |
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rummage
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| v./n.翻寻，仔细检查 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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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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51
droplets
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| n.小滴( droplet的名词复数 ) | |
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52
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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54
iguana
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| n.美洲大蜥蜴，鬣鳞蜥 | |
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iguanas
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| n. 美洲蜥蜴 名词iguana的复数形式 | |
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56
bawl
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| v.大喊大叫，大声地喊，咆哮 | |
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spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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genes
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| n.基因( gene的名词复数 ) | |
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calibrated
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| v.校准( calibrate的过去式和过去分词 )；使标准化；使合标准；测量（枪的）口径 | |
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rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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scatter
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| vt.撒，驱散，散开；散布/播；vi.分散，消散 | |
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throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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aspirin
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| n.阿司匹林 | |
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dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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rumbles
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| 隆隆声，辘辘声( rumble的名词复数 ) | |
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serial
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| n.连本影片，连本电视节目；adj.连续的 | |
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killer
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| n.杀人者，杀人犯，杀手，屠杀者 | |
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ketchup
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| n.蕃茄酱，蕃茄沙司 | |
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pulsating
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| adj.搏动的，脉冲的v.有节奏地舒张及收缩( pulsate的现在分词 )；跳动；脉动；受（激情）震动 | |
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backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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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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hoists
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| 把…吊起，升起( hoist的第三人称单数 ) | |
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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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fends
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| v.独立生活，照料自己( fend的第三人称单数 )；挡开，避开 | |
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runaway
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| n.逃走的人，逃亡，亡命者；adj.逃亡的，逃走的 | |
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defense
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| n.防御，保卫；[pl.]防务工事；辩护，答辩 | |
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poking
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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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81
ironic
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| adj.讽刺的，有讽刺意味的，出乎意料的 | |
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82
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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83
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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