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.Couldn’t be about Sasquatch Man pulling his stuffing out.Has to be his father that runs him through the wringer?He thinks, that’s just how we are, isn’t it? Nothing scarier in our own lives than our own lives.No monster is mean enough to beat our own inner demons.Humans, more vulnerable to their own past than to anything—He gets up out of bed, and a gear turns inside his mind.As one turns, others turn with it, faster and faster.Click, click, click.To the phone, then.Two calls.The first, to Frank.Frank’s up.It’s past midnight and of course he’s up.Cason tells him to get over here.“I think I have it figured out.”The second call, downstairs.To find out if the hotel has a copy machine.Cason grabs a book and his room key (both near to a bright red apple sitting all proud and shiny on the hotel desk), then heads to the elevator.CASON STANDS INSIDE the hotel lobby.The guy at the front desk—a small, feminine man with dusky skin and dark eyes—watches Cason without trying to hide his suspicion.It’s then that Cason realizes he came down here in a t-shirt and boxer shorts.It’s not like he didn’t realize it, what with the fact his hotel keycard is tucked in the hem of his underwear.But he didn’t think about it.Not really.And now the front desk guy is staring at him like he’s a mental patient on the loose.Too late now.The show’s about to get far more interesting, anyway.Frank walks in the door.Dude at the front desk hasn’t seen Frank before, it seems—he’s physically taken aback, as if a hard wind just gave him a little shove.The guy’s eyes go wide as Frank comes toodling through the lobby with his jigsaw-puzzle skin, unafraid of being seen.So much so that Frank makes a face for the front desk guy: a leering, toothy, bug-eyed boogeyman stare.He yells: “Booga booga booga!”The man swiftly turns back to his computer screen.Probably playing solitaire or watching cat videos on the Internet.“People are so rude,” Frank growls.“Hey, nice boxers, Case-of-the-Mondays.Pinstripe.Simple.Elegant.Understated.You’re about to poke out of them, though.” Frank points toward Cason’s crotch, then whistles.“Please don’t look at my dick, Frank.” Cason shakes it off.“Here, check this out.” He shakes a paper—a copy of a two-page spread out of a book.“What’s this?”“A photocopy.I was thinking.Nergal, right? This god’s got a.history.A complex.He was this one god, and then he fucks up, and suddenly he’s forced to become a different god entirely.And there’s this one passage that keeps coming back again and again.” He didn’t have a highlighter, just a pen, and so he circled a line on the paper.Frank mumble-reads it aloud.“An adab to Nergal for Shu-ilishu.Lessee.Uhhh.Lord, mighty storm, raging with your great powers, Nergal, who smites the enemy whom he has cursed.Exalted lord, strong one with powerful wrist, whom no one can withstand.Nergal, rising broadly, full of furious might, great one praised for his accomplishment, pre-eminent among the youthful gods.Nergal, angry sea, inspiring fearsome terror, who no one knows how to confront, youth whose advance is a hurricane and a flood battering the lands.Nergal, dragon covered in gore, drinking the blood of living creatures.” Frank sniffs.“He sounds like a peach.The hell’s your point? You dragged me over here for this?”“There’s a clue in here somewhere.I can feel it.”“You can feel it? Show me on the doll where the Adab-to-Nergal touched you.”“At the library, you said you just knew.You follow your gut with stuff like this, and Frank, I’m following my gut, here.Listen.Look at Nergal like a regular person.He’s a guy with a former glory that lost everything.He’s an all-star quarterback taken out of the game with a leg injury and made to coach from the sidelines.He’s a top-shelf detective who gets chained to desk duty for the rest of his cop career.He’s an aging pop-star, a brash young prince made into an ugly old king—”“Okay, okay.Onward and upward to an actual goddamn point, please.”“Who he was haunts him.This adab—it’s like a prayer, by the way, a hymn from the original Sumerian—it glorifies who he was, not who he is.This is the yearbook of that old quarterback, the case-notes of the old detective.There’s something here.I can taste it.It doesn’t call to mind any one object, but.”Frank’s face lights up.Which is not a pretty picture—it looks like a lobster flushing red after getting dunked in boiling water.Still.He gets excited.“We don’t need an object,” Frank says, his voice a breathy hiss of mad glee.“What?”“This!” He shakes the paper.“This is our object.The past is our friend’s weakness, and this adab is his past.”Cason still isn’t getting it.“A photocopy isn’t a weapon.”Frank chuckles.“You ever get a papercut, Cole?”CHAPTER EIGHTEENDeath By A Thousand CutsIT’S A FORTUNE cookie from Hell.Frank’s bomb [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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.Couldn’t be about Sasquatch Man pulling his stuffing out.Has to be his father that runs him through the wringer?He thinks, that’s just how we are, isn’t it? Nothing scarier in our own lives than our own lives.No monster is mean enough to beat our own inner demons.Humans, more vulnerable to their own past than to anything—He gets up out of bed, and a gear turns inside his mind.As one turns, others turn with it, faster and faster.Click, click, click.To the phone, then.Two calls.The first, to Frank.Frank’s up.It’s past midnight and of course he’s up.Cason tells him to get over here.“I think I have it figured out.”The second call, downstairs.To find out if the hotel has a copy machine.Cason grabs a book and his room key (both near to a bright red apple sitting all proud and shiny on the hotel desk), then heads to the elevator.CASON STANDS INSIDE the hotel lobby.The guy at the front desk—a small, feminine man with dusky skin and dark eyes—watches Cason without trying to hide his suspicion.It’s then that Cason realizes he came down here in a t-shirt and boxer shorts.It’s not like he didn’t realize it, what with the fact his hotel keycard is tucked in the hem of his underwear.But he didn’t think about it.Not really.And now the front desk guy is staring at him like he’s a mental patient on the loose.Too late now.The show’s about to get far more interesting, anyway.Frank walks in the door.Dude at the front desk hasn’t seen Frank before, it seems—he’s physically taken aback, as if a hard wind just gave him a little shove.The guy’s eyes go wide as Frank comes toodling through the lobby with his jigsaw-puzzle skin, unafraid of being seen.So much so that Frank makes a face for the front desk guy: a leering, toothy, bug-eyed boogeyman stare.He yells: “Booga booga booga!”The man swiftly turns back to his computer screen.Probably playing solitaire or watching cat videos on the Internet.“People are so rude,” Frank growls.“Hey, nice boxers, Case-of-the-Mondays.Pinstripe.Simple.Elegant.Understated.You’re about to poke out of them, though.” Frank points toward Cason’s crotch, then whistles.“Please don’t look at my dick, Frank.” Cason shakes it off.“Here, check this out.” He shakes a paper—a copy of a two-page spread out of a book.“What’s this?”“A photocopy.I was thinking.Nergal, right? This god’s got a.history.A complex.He was this one god, and then he fucks up, and suddenly he’s forced to become a different god entirely.And there’s this one passage that keeps coming back again and again.” He didn’t have a highlighter, just a pen, and so he circled a line on the paper.Frank mumble-reads it aloud.“An adab to Nergal for Shu-ilishu.Lessee.Uhhh.Lord, mighty storm, raging with your great powers, Nergal, who smites the enemy whom he has cursed.Exalted lord, strong one with powerful wrist, whom no one can withstand.Nergal, rising broadly, full of furious might, great one praised for his accomplishment, pre-eminent among the youthful gods.Nergal, angry sea, inspiring fearsome terror, who no one knows how to confront, youth whose advance is a hurricane and a flood battering the lands.Nergal, dragon covered in gore, drinking the blood of living creatures.” Frank sniffs.“He sounds like a peach.The hell’s your point? You dragged me over here for this?”“There’s a clue in here somewhere.I can feel it.”“You can feel it? Show me on the doll where the Adab-to-Nergal touched you.”“At the library, you said you just knew.You follow your gut with stuff like this, and Frank, I’m following my gut, here.Listen.Look at Nergal like a regular person.He’s a guy with a former glory that lost everything.He’s an all-star quarterback taken out of the game with a leg injury and made to coach from the sidelines.He’s a top-shelf detective who gets chained to desk duty for the rest of his cop career.He’s an aging pop-star, a brash young prince made into an ugly old king—”“Okay, okay.Onward and upward to an actual goddamn point, please.”“Who he was haunts him.This adab—it’s like a prayer, by the way, a hymn from the original Sumerian—it glorifies who he was, not who he is.This is the yearbook of that old quarterback, the case-notes of the old detective.There’s something here.I can taste it.It doesn’t call to mind any one object, but.”Frank’s face lights up.Which is not a pretty picture—it looks like a lobster flushing red after getting dunked in boiling water.Still.He gets excited.“We don’t need an object,” Frank says, his voice a breathy hiss of mad glee.“What?”“This!” He shakes the paper.“This is our object.The past is our friend’s weakness, and this adab is his past.”Cason still isn’t getting it.“A photocopy isn’t a weapon.”Frank chuckles.“You ever get a papercut, Cole?”CHAPTER EIGHTEENDeath By A Thousand CutsIT’S A FORTUNE cookie from Hell.Frank’s bomb [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]