World globes (on key
rings). Soccor balls on key-rings.
All purpose knives
Hip-pocket combs. Pipes.
nude women on the back.
Cufflinks. Nail-clippers. Watchs.
Men's shampoos. Hair creams.
And 2 photographs
of the Barber, cutting somebody's
The Remington 870 is a big, heavy-hitting piece of artillery. Adapted for the Us Marine Corps at the height of the Vietnam War it was just about perfect for the requirements of the Special Ops section. When fired it unleashes a super-hot wad of eighteen lead pellets at a muzzle velocity of over 1200 feet per second. These pellets spread out from the mouth of the gun at a rate of about one inch for every yard travelled. It is an excellent firearm for clearing constricted spaces in close urban combat. Its utility for subduing confused angry young men in their underpants is more problematic.
My father had seen, in the dead bodies of infants and children and young men and women, evidence that God lived by the Laws of Nature, and obeyed its statues, however brutal. Kids died of gravity and physics and biology and natural selection. Car wrecks and measles and knives stuck in toasters, household poisons, guns left loaded, kidnappers, serial killers, burst appendixes, bee stings, hard-candy chokings, croups untreated--he'd seen too many instances of God's unwillingness to over-rule the natural order which included, along with hurricanes and meteorites and other Acts of God, the aberrant disasters of childhood.
He's lying down on one of our living room couches. I doubt that he's sleeping. Even though I've never liked him, I feel sorry for him. He's lost his home and his family. He's the only survivor. What must that be like?
From the sky a frail black fragment, tumbling as in a dream, drifts down to settle on my arm. Upon it, barely visible against its black, the faintest silver tracery of lines may yet be seen: a gentle curve that is perhaps a stream or else some buried lane, the clustered spidermarks that may be trees viewed from above.
It breaks against my wrist and falls to dust, caught by the wind to scatter over the cremation fields."
When I was three and Bailey four, we had arrived in the musty little town, wearing tags on our wrists which instructed--"To Whom It May Concern"--that we were Marguerite and Baily Johnson Jr., from Long Beach, California, en route to Stamps, Arkansas, c/o Mrs. Annie Henderson.
Fafhrd splashed cool water onto his face from a great bowl set against the wall. "Ah well," he spoke through the splashes,"'Twas a pretty bait at least. Truly, there's nothing like a nubile girl, enjoyed or merely glimpsed naked, to give one an appetite for breakfast."
"Indeed yes," the Mouser replied, as he tightly shut his eyes and briskly rubbed his face with a palm full of white brandy. "She was just the sort of immature dish to kindle your satyrish taste for maids newly budded."
In the silence that came as the splashing stopped, Fafhrd inquired innocently, "Whose satyrish taste?"
a single dog
walking alone on a hot sidewalk of
appears to have the power of ten thousand gods.
(How many quotes can you pick?)