js&cs.thebridge-第39部分

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ut　of　their　birthrights　by　the　greedheads　who　ran　the　world　and；　worse；　the　cowards　who　watched　it　all　happen　without　lifting　a　finger　to　stop　it。
　　Which　was　where；　Garth　reminded　himself；　assholes　like　Lydia's　dad　came　in。
　　It　was　one　thing　to　hate　men　like　Werner　Blake。　They　were　wholly　transparent　scum；　and　they　certainly　didn't　deserve　to　live；　but　at　least　they'd　never　volunteered　the　pretense　of　brotherly　love　or　global　concern。
　　Guys　like　Frank　Vickers；　on　the　other　hand；　were　nothing　but　pretense：　a　bunch　of　pathetic　old　ex…hippie…turned…yuppie…turned…bitter…old…lecherous…drunken　liberal　shmucks　who；　if　anything；　Garth　and　Lydia　hated　even　more　than　Garth's　old　man；　because　at　least　Garth's　old　man　could　get　it　up　once　in　a　while。
　　If　there　was　one　thing　more　pathetic　than　listening　to　Frank　Vickers　drone　on　about　〃the　Sixties〃…when　people　really　cared；　unlike　today…Garth　couldn't　for　the　life　of　him　imagine　what　it　was。　These　days；　Frank's　idea　of　social　responsibility　was　to　form　an　〃environmental　action　group；〃　which　mostly　consisted　of　other　middle…aged　whining　pisspots　like　himself。　They　would　get　together　and　talk　about　political　action　and　drafting　resolutions　and　shit；　except　it　always　turned　into　an　argument　about　who　was　in　charge；　if　it　even　got　that　far。　They　they'd　break　for　refreshments　and　wind　up　trashed；　having　acplished　nothing；　playing　Trivial　Pursuit　and　talking　about　how　the　dope　was　better　in　the　good　old　days。
　　Chalk　another　one　up　for　peace；　love；　and　understanding。
　　Which　leaves　people　like　us　with　pretty　damn　little　to　work　with　in　the　role…model　department；　Garth　mused。　Not　that　this　is　a　big　surprise　or　anything。　I　mean；　we　would　have　liked　to　believe　you　guys；　but　you're　just　too　utterly　full　of　shit。
　　All　we　want　is　a　fucking　admission　of　guilt。　That's　all。　Just　to　hear　the　truth　spoken…just　once…in　our　lifetimes。　It　may　seem　like　a　lot　to　ask；　but　what　the　hell。
　　Everybody's　gotta　have　a　dream　。。。
　　
　　〃Hey；　careful　with　the　merchandise；〃　Lydia　cut　in；　bursting　the　bubble　of　rumination。　〃You　could　put　someone's　eye　out　with　that　thing！〃
　　〃Huh？〃　Garth　blurted；　then　looked　at　his　hands。　He　had　rolled　the　premiere　issue　of　NO　FUTURE　into　a　cylinder　tight　enough　to　train　puppies　with。　〃Oh；　sorry！〃　Garth　said　sheepishly。
　　〃Don't　worry　about　it；〃　Lydia　replied。　〃Here；　take　out　your　impulses　on　these。〃
　　She　handed　him　what　looked　like　a　roll　of　laminated　toilet　paper。　〃Oh　wow！〃　Garth　exclaimed；　unfurling　it：　piece　upon　piece　of　lovely；　adhesive…backed　sticker　paper；　each　square　throbbing　with　the　NO　FUTURE　logo。
　　〃No　shit。〃　He　turned　to　her；　pleased；　met　the　gleam　in　her　eye。　〃How　many　did　we　get？〃
　　〃A　thousand；　so　far。〃　They　just　couldn't　stop　smiling。　〃That's　why　I'm　so　late。　I've　been　sticking　'em　on　pay　phones　all　morning　。。。　〃
　　〃Without　ME？〃　he　hollered；　horrified。
　　〃Yeah；　well；〃　she　said；　as　the　Scuzzbug　rolled　straight　for　the　heart　of　Paradise。　〃That's　what　we　get　whole　lives　for；　they　tell　me。〃　And　Garth　just　laughed　and　laughed　and　laughed。
　　Their　day；　it　seemed；　had　at　long　last　e。
　　And　what　a　day　it　was。
　　
　　
　　　Thirty…Four
　　　
　　Sunday；　Nov。　23
　　FROM　THE　DESK　OF：　Bernard　S。　Kleigel
　　To　the　editor：
　　Am　I　the　only　one　who's　fed　up　with　all　the　〃parasites　and　leeches〃　on　the　Body　Politic？　Isn't　anyone　tired　of　supporting　lazy　〃Good…For…Nothings〃　who　get　fat　off　the　fat　of　the　land？　And　I'm　not　just　referring　to　〃Welfare　Cheats〃　and　the　Socialist　programs　that　make　it　possible　for　Mixed　Races　to　rage　Drug　Wars　in　America's　backyards。
　　No；　I'm　talking　about　the　very　〃Public　Servants〃　that　our　tax　dollars　are　supposed　to　be　SUPPORTING！！！　That's　right；　I'm　talking　about　the　people　who　〃Operate〃　our　911　numbers；　and　the
　　
　　There　was　somebody　at　the　door。
　　〃DAMMIT；　MILLIE！〃　Bernie　bellowed。　〃GET　THE　DOOR；　FERCRISSAKES！〃　He　couldn't　for　the　life　of　him　prehend　that　woman's　problem。　Here　he　was；　struggling　over　draft　seventeen　of　his　letter；　and　he　couldn't　even　concentrate　on　what　he　was　doing；　because　of　all　that
　　　hammering　on　the　damn　front　door。　For　God's　sake；　she　knew　how　important　it　was！　He'd　told　her　a　million　times：　if　you　plained　loudly　enough；　eventually　they　had　to　listen！
　　No　question　about　it。　It　had　to　be　kids。　From　his　perspective…stuck　in　the　paper…cluttered　corner　of　the　basement　he　called　his　office…it　was　a　distant；　persistent　tattoo　of　thudlike　sound。　He　had　half　a　mind　to　march　up　there　and　sue　their　parents；　but　God　did　he　ever　have　a　headache！　And　he　had　to　finish　this　letter。　Strike　while　the　iron　was　hot。
　　　our　911　numbers；　and　the　so…called　〃Peace　Officers〃　who　are　supposed　to　protect　us！
　　Today；　my　son　and　I　were　NEARLY　KILLED　by　teenage　hoodlums　（I　can　only　assume　they　were　involved　in　〃Illegal　Drug　Activity；〃　which　is　just　a　fancy　name　for　plain　old　dope　dealing！）。　That　in　itself　was　〃bad　enough〃！　But　it　was　nothing　pared　to　the　treatment　I　got　from　the　〃Friendly　People〃　（HAH！！！）　at　911
　　
　　〃GOD　DAMN　IT！〃
　　Now　they　were　stomping　around　up　there；　and　he　could　definitely　hear　laughter；　high…pitched　and　giddy。　Who　the　hell　were　these　kids？　They　sure　weren't　friends　of　Billy's；　so　far　as　he　knew；　Billy　didn't　have　any　friends。　It　just　didn't　make　any　sense　。。。
　　Then　Millie　screamed。
　　And　Billy　screamed。
　　And　Bernard　S。　Kleigel；　the　Conscience　of　a　Nation；　just　sat　there：　paralyzed；　sweating；　with　a　hammer　for　a　heart。
　　〃No；〃　he　whimpered；　as　the　footsteps　thundered　down　the　hallway：　Millie's　in　the　lead；　two　other　sets　in　hot　pursuit。　Billy's　persistent　screams　moved　with　her。　Bernie　could　picture　his　son　in　her　arms　as　she　ran；　crying　out　as　well。
　　Crying　out　for　him　。。。
　　But　there　was　nothing　he　could　do。　She　had　to　understand　that。　She　had　to　understand　that　he　was　helpless；　that　he　had　no　choice；　that　he　absolutely　could　not　move；　he　had　spent　his　whole　life　imagining　the　worst　and　now　that　it　was　here；　he　was　pletely　unprepared　for　it。
　　〃Please；〃　he　whined；　as　if　it　would　help。　As　if　he　were　tapped　into　some　cosmic　911　line；　relaying　his　message　directly　to　God　for　immediate　customer　satisfaction。　As　if　he　could　wish　his　cares　away。
　　As　if　God　were　actually　taking　his　calls　。。。
　　And　he　didn't　want　to　picture　it；　to　envision　in　his　mind　the　apocalyptic　WHOOMP　that　shook　the　house　to　its　foundation；　construct　a　visual　of　his　wife　as　she　hit　the　floorboards　above　his　head；　match　her　scream　with　the　face　he　knew　she　must　be　making。　He　didn't　want　to　see　the　sources　of　that　terrible　laughter；　was　unable　to　conjure　up　images　adequate　for　describing　the　sounds　being　torn　from　his　son。
　　But　when　the　meat　like　gravy　oozed　down　through　the　cracks；　he　no　longer　had　to　use　his　imagination。　It　spattered　the　floor　in　a　rich　red　rain；　drove　him　screaming　from　his　chair　and　his　sanity。　He　was　halfway　to　the　stairs　before　he　knew　he　was　moving；　halfway　up　the　stairs　before　he　saw　his　salvation。
　　It　was　his　old　pal；　Officer　Hal　Thoman。
　　911　had　e　through；　after　all。
　　〃NO！〃　Bernie　screamed　as　the　dead　cop　descended。　〃NO！〃　as　the　shadows　pulled　back　to　reveal　Hal's　full　green　open…skulled　glory。　One　last　full…throated　〃NOOOOOOH！〃　as　he　slipped　in　the　widening　pool　of　thickly　coagulant　family…style　sauce。
　　And　then　no　mean　old　kids　could　ever　bother　poor　old　Bernie　again。
　　
　　
　　　Thirty…Five
　　　
　　Bill　Teague　had　to　admit：　he　liked　being　his　own　boss。
　　He　lit　a　smoke　and　reflected　on　that　fact　as　they　rolled　down　the　twisty　roads；　en　route　to　number　two。　Bill　and　Ted　loved　their　job。　Not　the　killing；　especially；　although　Bill　would　confess　a　craftsman's　appreciation　of　a　job　well　executed；　pardon　the　pun。　They　just　liked　the　hours；　the　freedom；　the　excellent　adventures。
　　What　they　hated　were　the　boonies。
　　Travel　was　a　given；　which　meant　a　lot　of　runs　down　a　lot　of　secondary　highways　and　back　roads；　where　brain…dead　rubes　bred　like　rabbits　and　lived　in　nasty　little　cracker…boxes　with　concrete　jockeys　by　the　driveways　or　little　propeller…ducks　whizzing　on　their　squalid　little　lawns。　Give　Bill　and　Ted　a　city　any　day：　New　York；　Pittsburgh；　Philly。　Even　Baltimore；　if　it　came　down　to　it。　Anywhere　but　here。
　　Oh；　well。　Bill　sucked　smoke　and　fiddled　with　the　radio。　Came　with　the　territory。　〃Fuckin'　radio　wasteland；〃　he　muttered　to　Ted；　who　manned　the　wheel。
　　〃Fuckin'　worthless　radio；〃　Ted　addended；　and　Bill　agreed。　The　Impala's　radio　sucked。　At　the　moment；　the　only　tune　ing　through　on　the　dial　was　the　loathsome　Terry　Jacks；　crooning　〃Seasons　in　the　Sun。〃　Then　even　that　was　lost；　overwhelmed　in　a　loud　wash　of　static。
　　And　that　was　when　they　heard　it。　From　below；　around　the　bend　and　unseen；　rose　a　crazed　industrial　clamor。　Clanging；　smashing。
　　Roaring　to　life。
　　〃What　the　fuck　is　that？〃　he　asked。　They'd　been　apprised　that　Pusser　ran　a　scrap　and　salvage　yard；　but　this　sounded　more　like　a　demolition　derby；　minus　the　roar　of　the　crowds。
　　Ted　Ames　and　Bill　Teague　were　a　team。　They'd　been　in　the　business　for　eleven　years；　which　was　a　remarkably　long　lifespan　for　their　line　of　work。　They'd　seen　some　pretty　strange　shit　in　their　day：　lots　of　death　and　brutality；　too　many　dark　pockets　of　the　soul　to　fill；　and　muchisimo　weirdness　of　every　stripe。　That　came　with　the　territory；　too。
　　But　he　had　to　admit　that；　in　all　his　travels；　they'd　never　seen　anything　so　flat…out　deranged　as　what　lay　down　the　Dark　Hollow　Road。
　　They　rounded　the　bend　and　Ted　slammed　on　the　brakes。　The　Impala　swerved　and　jackknifed　nose…down　off　the　shoulder　and　half　into　a　ditch。　〃Fuck　me；〃　Ted　gasped；　incredulous。
　　〃Jesus；〃　Bill　croaked。　They　couldn't　believe　what　they　were　seeing；　accept　the　evidence　of　their　eyes。　Bill　could　only　shake　his　head；　seeing　his　own　worst　nightmare　breeding　before　him。
　　There　were　easily　a　hundred　of　them；　skittering　little　forms　in　concrete　and　plaster　and　wood；　a　frenzied　fantasyland　of　warped　animate　copulating　kitsch。　It　was　a　lawn　ornament　orgy　by　Bosch；　leprechauns　in　motion；　mounting　fleeced；　bleating　plywood　lambs。　Jockeys　sploshing　through　the　mud；　riding　pink　flamingos　from　behind。　Little　Dutch　girls　with　their　butts　in　the　air；　humping　the　heads　of　thei