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- Smutek to uczucie, jak gdyby się tonęło, jak gdyby grzebano cię w ziemi.
- transmitować
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Smutek to uczucie, jak gdyby się tonęło, jak gdyby grzebano cię w ziemi.
Even over in Madison, the name Wen-
dell Green stands for . . . well, unquestioned excellence. And if the
name Wendell Green is like the gold standard now, just wait until he
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rides the Fisherman’s blood-spattered shoulders all the way to a Pulitzer
Prize.
So Monday morning he has to go into the office and pacify his ed-
itor. Big deal. It isn’t the first time, and it won’t be the last. Good re-
porters make waves; nobody admits it, but that’s the deal, that’s the
fine print nobody reads until it’s too late. When he walks into his ed-
itor’s office, he knows what he’s going to say: Biggest story of the day,
and did you see any other reporters there? And when he has the editor eat-
ing out of his hand again, which will take about ten minutes flat, he
intends to drop in on a Goltz’s salesman named Fred Marshall. One of
Wendell’s most valuable sources has suggested that Mr. Marshall has
some interesting information about his special, special baby, the Fish-
erman case.
Arnold Hrabowski, now a hero to his darling wife, Paula, is watching
the news in a postcoital glow and thinking that she is right: he really
should call Chief Gilbertson and ask to be taken off suspension.
Wondering with half his mind where he might look for George Pot-
ter’s old adversary, Dale Gilbertson watches Bucky and Stacey cut away
yet again to the spectacle of the Mad Hungarian taking care of Wendell
Green and thinks that he really should reinstate the little guy. Would you
look at the beautiful swing Arnie took? Dale can’t help it—that swing
really brightens up his day. It’s like watching Mark McGwire, like
watching Tiger Woods.
Alone in her dark little house off the highway, Wanda Kinderling, to
whom we have made passing mention from time to time, is listening to
the radio. Why is she listening to the radio? Some months ago, she had
to decide between paying her cable bill and buying another half gallon
of Aristocrat vodka, and sorry, Bucky and Stacey, but Wanda followed
her bliss, she went with her heart. Without cable service, her television
set brings in little more than snow and a heavy dark line that scrolls up
over her screen in an endless loop. Wanda always hated Bucky and
Stacey anyhow, along with almost everyone else on television, especially
if they looked content and well groomed. (She has a special loathing for
the hosts of morning news programs and network anchors.) Wanda has
not been content or well groomed since her husband, Thorny, was ac-
cused of terrible crimes he could never ever have committed by that
high and mighty show-off Jack Sawyer. Jack Sawyer ruined her life, and
Wanda is not about to forgive or forget.
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B L A C K H O U S E
That man trapped her husband. He set him up. He smeared Thorny’s
innocent name and packed him off to jail just to make himself look
good. Wanda hopes they never catch the Fisherman, because the Fish-
erman is exactly what they deserve, those dirty bastards. Play dirty,
you are dirty, and people like that can gostraight tothe deepest bow-
els of hell—that’s what Wanda Kinderling thinks. The Fisherman is
retribution— that’s what Wanda thinks. Let him kill a hundred brats, let
him kill a thousand, and after that he can start in on their parents.
Thorny could not have killed those sluts down there in Los Angeles.
Those were sex murders, and Thorny had no interest in sex, thank the
Lord. The rest of him grew up, but his man-part never did; his thingie
was about the size of his little finger. It was impossible for him to care
about nasty women and sex things. But Jack Sawyer lived in Los An-
geles, didn’t he? Sowhy couldn’t he have killed those sluts, those
whores, and blamed it all on Thorny?
The newscaster describes former Lieutenant Sawyer’s actions of the
previous night, and Wanda Kinderling spits up bile, grabs the glass from
her bedside table, and douses the fire in her guts with three inches of
vodka.
Gorg, who would seem a natural visitor to the likes of Wanda, pays
no attention to the news, for he is far away in Faraway.
In his bed at Maxton’s, Charles Burnside is enjoying dreams not pre-
cisely his, for they emanate from another being, from elsewhere, and de-
pict a world he has never seen on his own. Ragged, enslaved children
plod on their bleeding foodzies past leaping flames, turning giant wheels
that turn yet larger wheels oho aha that power the beyoodiful engynes
of destruction mounting mounting to the black-and-red sky. The Big
Combination! An acrid stink of molten metal and something truly vile,
something like dragon urine, perfumes the air, as does the leaden stench
of despair. Lizard demons with thick, flickering tails whip the children
along. A din of clattering and banging, of crashing and enormous thuds
punishes the ears. These are the dreams of Burny’s dearest friend and
loving master, Mr. Munshun, a being of endless and perverse delight.
Down past the end of Daisy wing, across the handsome lobby, and
through Rebecca Vilas’s little cubicle, Chipper Maxton is concerned
with matters considerably more mundane. The little TV on a shelf over
the safe broadcasts the wondrous image of Mad Hungarian Hrabowski
clobbering Wendell Green with a nice, clean sweep of his heavy-duty
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flashlight, but Chipper barely notices the splendid moment. He has to
come up with the thirteen thousand dollars he owes his bookie, and he
has only about half of that sum. Yesterday, lovely Rebecca drove to
Miller to withdraw most of what he had stashed there, and he can use
about two thousand dollars from his own account, as long as he replaces
it before the end of the month. That leaves about six grand, an amount
that will call for some seriously creative bookkeeping. Fortunately, cre-