Michael Beeson's Research

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“No,” Adams insisted again, “but perhaps Mrs. Franklin can demonstrate the truth for the court.” “On and off. I pay my rent most months. I owe money here and there, but I got this job for the interiors of this new office building going up on Wilshire. That’ll see me through to the end of next year.” ‘Let me talk to him then.’ “A quarter of an hour, half an hour later; I can’t remember that exactly anymore.” came into the world at her mother’s first attempt to create a child. Part of the very sky has sunk and laid itself over the mountain. I wasn’t present for that conversation either, but yes, they’d evidently discussed it. Hickey rang me first thing the morning after the barbeque. ‘Where did you fuck off to?’ he wanted to know, but instead of waiting for an answer he instructed me to be ready to be picked up at eight fifteen on Monday morning since an important meeting with McGee and the Bills was scheduled for nine. He asked me to do my best to secure M. Deauville’s attendance and he apologised for the short notice. Apologised to M. Deauville, that is, not to me. I stared at him in his suit. He never looked right in a suit, same as I never looked right in jeans. A tuft of black bristles protruded from his ear, the match of the black bristles sprouting from his nose, as if something were growing inside him, forcing its way out. He was a few rungs behind on the evolutionary ladder, or perhaps a few rungs ahead on the evolutionary ladder, or on some as yet undocumented stretch of the ladder which had taken off on a tangent, so he was not a man but something hybrid, something wolfish, something that wore its pelt on the inside, because they were a new breed, weren’t they, these developers. And their development was escalating. Soon they would take over. They’d enslave us. Too late: they already had. A commotion had broken out in the sales queue. An agent had placed a sign in the window: ‘Deh,’ he said again, ‘notdoh.’ * * * “The one I am reading says symbols are the signposts of human lives, that we rely upon and use them without knowing so.” She aimed her gaze back to the animals. If they show up at the cottage, I’m taking out the rifle. The porch light came on and she opened the door a fraction, the safety chain tautened above her top lip like a brass moustache. A kindly blossom, Lord, make me. “... but his belief in our ability to provide the requisite care,” the brother added. “Messages have arrived from Jessica’s family, Duncan, down the Susquehanna. A Scottish constable seized a horse train of trade goods going west. When they found it was mostly blades and guns for the tribes they destroyed it. Tons of weapons going to the western tribes.” Then, right at that moment, I had an attack of apprehension. Where was Edda? What was Edda doing? Was she alive or dead? Was she fine, or hurt? Half-stoned, completely stoned, on what? Pregnant? Sick with AIDS? Or had she killed a few birds with one stone and was a number of these things at once? My thoughts were straitjacketed in a vicious circle. Same old story, over and over. A scratched horror record, that didn’t change with the turning of the years. A new year starting, and I was screwed up once again..