Kyle Michel Sullivan's Blog: https://www.myirishnovel.com/, page 235
April 1, 2015
There are no more Christians in America...
A lot of people still claim they are, but their actions are the exact opposite of the teachings of Christ so their claims are lies. Period.
To me, the whole idea of being a Christian is boiled down to its essence in three chapters of Matthew -- 5-7. The Sermon on the Mount. That's where Jesus tells people not to judge, to love others as much as they do themselves. To be tolerant and understanding, and to live their lives right, not to loudly proclaim how good and Godly they are.
But since the dawn of the church, those words have only been used for others to live up to, not the self-professed christianists. They have used the bible to excuse slavery, slaughter, genocide, torture, hate, selfishness, condescension, injustice and intolerance in the extreme. Not to mention silence in the face of all this evil, because it's a tenet of law that silence equals consent. And none of this is acceptable to Christ.
I'm not saying they're the only ones who do this. Muslims have pulled the same crap since Mohammed, and if you read the Old Testament, you can see where Jews have done it, too. All in the name of their god, be he Allah or Jahweh. Hindus and Buddhists and even Sikhs have done it. But it's the christianists in America who are the focus of my hatred, right now, because they're the ones turning our country into a theocracy, just like Iran is, Israel is becoming, and just like what ISIS wants to do. They're the ones bringing hell to my neighborhood.
Maybe they should be called Paulists, because Paul's the one who turned Christianity into something spiteful and vile.
To me, the whole idea of being a Christian is boiled down to its essence in three chapters of Matthew -- 5-7. The Sermon on the Mount. That's where Jesus tells people not to judge, to love others as much as they do themselves. To be tolerant and understanding, and to live their lives right, not to loudly proclaim how good and Godly they are.
But since the dawn of the church, those words have only been used for others to live up to, not the self-professed christianists. They have used the bible to excuse slavery, slaughter, genocide, torture, hate, selfishness, condescension, injustice and intolerance in the extreme. Not to mention silence in the face of all this evil, because it's a tenet of law that silence equals consent. And none of this is acceptable to Christ.
I'm not saying they're the only ones who do this. Muslims have pulled the same crap since Mohammed, and if you read the Old Testament, you can see where Jews have done it, too. All in the name of their god, be he Allah or Jahweh. Hindus and Buddhists and even Sikhs have done it. But it's the christianists in America who are the focus of my hatred, right now, because they're the ones turning our country into a theocracy, just like Iran is, Israel is becoming, and just like what ISIS wants to do. They're the ones bringing hell to my neighborhood.
Maybe they should be called Paulists, because Paul's the one who turned Christianity into something spiteful and vile.
March 31, 2015
Oh, boy...
I got into a confrontation scene that shot all over the place, to where I'm so confused by it I have no idea what I set out to do. So I put it aside and will look at it, tomorrow. Nothing unusual about that, unfortunately; I plow into the moment and suddenly everybody's pops in with ideas that don't necessarily match up, and I have to take a breather to regain my bearings.
I'm having fun watching the meltdown in Indiana. Mike Spence is twisting himself into a pretzel trying to explain how a bill clearly meant to help Christians discriminate against anyone they damn well want to is not a bill meant to let Christians discriminate against anyone they damn well want to. He's a stupid son-of-a-bitch, but he's also stubborn; not a good combination...because stupid people are almost always stubborn about what they're being stupid about.
It's true religious freedom laws have been passed in 19 other states, and one is being passed in Arkansas even as I write, but what I think's happening here is the old idea about the straw that broke the camel's back. Those other laws were protested, but they were in states where people almost expected this crap to happen. Indiana was supposedly forward thinking. Yet the second the GOP had control they snuck through a bill to kick anyone not a heterosexual WASP male in the teeth.
This was one state too many, and now the full-scale backlash has begun. We'll see how far it goes; I'm still too cynical to think much will change, and I have a good idea once the uproar dies down, all these companies who support equal rights will go back to business as usual with the state. But at least it's an enjoyable spectacle as it happens. And proves, yet again, that the GOP is completely, totally, and absolutely without moral fiber or capability. To paraphrase Paul Krugman, "It's like they enjoy causing pain and suffering to those who are marginalized." That is diseased.
So, my dear despicable Governor Spence, this picture's for you. And since you'd probably need a translation as to what it is I mean, this is the PG-13 version of, "Suck my dick, asshole."
May you and your ilk rot in hell.
I'm having fun watching the meltdown in Indiana. Mike Spence is twisting himself into a pretzel trying to explain how a bill clearly meant to help Christians discriminate against anyone they damn well want to is not a bill meant to let Christians discriminate against anyone they damn well want to. He's a stupid son-of-a-bitch, but he's also stubborn; not a good combination...because stupid people are almost always stubborn about what they're being stupid about.
It's true religious freedom laws have been passed in 19 other states, and one is being passed in Arkansas even as I write, but what I think's happening here is the old idea about the straw that broke the camel's back. Those other laws were protested, but they were in states where people almost expected this crap to happen. Indiana was supposedly forward thinking. Yet the second the GOP had control they snuck through a bill to kick anyone not a heterosexual WASP male in the teeth.
This was one state too many, and now the full-scale backlash has begun. We'll see how far it goes; I'm still too cynical to think much will change, and I have a good idea once the uproar dies down, all these companies who support equal rights will go back to business as usual with the state. But at least it's an enjoyable spectacle as it happens. And proves, yet again, that the GOP is completely, totally, and absolutely without moral fiber or capability. To paraphrase Paul Krugman, "It's like they enjoy causing pain and suffering to those who are marginalized." That is diseased.
So, my dear despicable Governor Spence, this picture's for you. And since you'd probably need a translation as to what it is I mean, this is the PG-13 version of, "Suck my dick, asshole."May you and your ilk rot in hell.
March 30, 2015
That scene...
Nothing more meed be said...
The Big Sleep (1946)
Do NOT watch the 1945 or 1978 versions; the 1946 movie is the definitive telling of Raymond Chandler's crazy-quilt book. I read it, years ago, and it was a lot racier than the move...except for one scene...in a bar...between Bogie and Bacall...as they discuss horse-racing.
Bogart at his peak. Bacall at her most sexy. Doesn't make a hell of a lot of sense, but it works and that's what counts.
Bogart at his peak. Bacall at her most sexy. Doesn't make a hell of a lot of sense, but it works and that's what counts.
March 29, 2015
I drink too much...
Tea and Dr. Pepper, that is. I only have the occasional beer or glass of wine. Rarely any mixed drink. And water, now and then. But I can go through 3 pots of hot tea a day...which means I have to pee every ten minutes, it seems. And that also might be the source of a lot of my weight -- overabundance of liquids. I'll have to look into that...sometime. It's just, when I'm writing I like having something to drink at hand. And water just don't hack it.
I'm at that stage in UG where I've started trying to repeat aspects of the story. Not deliberately. Fact is, it's like they're new ideas to me, but then I remember I've already got something like that in an earlier chapter and have to get rid of it. Like two steps forward and one and a half back. Fortunately, I've got a fairly decent outline of the story, this time, so it seems to be moving forward well enough.
Devlin's a bastard, but he keeps revealing aspects of his history that sort of excuse it. His father was physically abusive and may well have killed his mother and buried her somewhere. His older brother is mentally and emotionally scarred from that abuse, so he had to take over the family business. Some people have tried to take advantage of the family situation and, in fact, nearly half a million dollars was scammed out of dear old dad, which nearly sent them into bankruptcy. He's learned he has to be hard, sometimes, to keep things going.
He's also built a nasty vindictive streak that makes him need to take revenge on those who've wronged him or his brother. I can't quite figure if he was headed for a nervous breakdown or into serial killer territory when he collides with Reg. That encounter shatters his whole psyche, sending his mind into chaos and letting him see just how crazed he was becoming.
It's hard to believe I snuck this photo on the London Underground over a year ago, starting this whole story going in my brain. He's become Reg, to me...Reginald Brewster Thornton. I wish I'd followed him off the train, now. Found out who he really is. But for me to do that would be totally opposite of how I usually behave. I barely approach people I know, let alone perfect strangers.
But seeing him really did get the whole process started. His sad eyes and slumped posture. I'm not sure why Dev became the storyteller in this, or why the sex started out so raw and vicious...but that's only at first. I already see it growing gentler and more inclusive as the story progresses...some of it to my surprise.
It'll be interesting to find out how this finally turns out.
I'm at that stage in UG where I've started trying to repeat aspects of the story. Not deliberately. Fact is, it's like they're new ideas to me, but then I remember I've already got something like that in an earlier chapter and have to get rid of it. Like two steps forward and one and a half back. Fortunately, I've got a fairly decent outline of the story, this time, so it seems to be moving forward well enough.
Devlin's a bastard, but he keeps revealing aspects of his history that sort of excuse it. His father was physically abusive and may well have killed his mother and buried her somewhere. His older brother is mentally and emotionally scarred from that abuse, so he had to take over the family business. Some people have tried to take advantage of the family situation and, in fact, nearly half a million dollars was scammed out of dear old dad, which nearly sent them into bankruptcy. He's learned he has to be hard, sometimes, to keep things going.
He's also built a nasty vindictive streak that makes him need to take revenge on those who've wronged him or his brother. I can't quite figure if he was headed for a nervous breakdown or into serial killer territory when he collides with Reg. That encounter shatters his whole psyche, sending his mind into chaos and letting him see just how crazed he was becoming.It's hard to believe I snuck this photo on the London Underground over a year ago, starting this whole story going in my brain. He's become Reg, to me...Reginald Brewster Thornton. I wish I'd followed him off the train, now. Found out who he really is. But for me to do that would be totally opposite of how I usually behave. I barely approach people I know, let alone perfect strangers.
But seeing him really did get the whole process started. His sad eyes and slumped posture. I'm not sure why Dev became the storyteller in this, or why the sex started out so raw and vicious...but that's only at first. I already see it growing gentler and more inclusive as the story progresses...some of it to my surprise.
It'll be interesting to find out how this finally turns out.
March 28, 2015
BTW...
The more I see of Dean Monroe, the more I think he's the perfect look for Devlin in Underground Guy.
Dean was a porn star, now retired, and lives in London. I guess he's from there, so he's not really Dev's background; Devlin's from New York City. But his features are just right.
And those eyes...
Dean was a porn star, now retired, and lives in London. I guess he's from there, so he's not really Dev's background; Devlin's from New York City. But his features are just right.And those eyes...
The New York Book Fair is coming...
I know because I spent all week looking over paperwork associated with it. This is only from our foreign clients; US clients aren't exporting or importing so they don't have to do anything but get picked up and brought here.
Anyway, the foreign dealers send in packing lists of their shipment along with an invoice summarizing the value of each class -- books, artwork, photography, etc. -- and whether they are over or under 100 years of age. As part of our service -- which includes picking them up, handling export from their country and import to the US, and delivery direct to their booth at the fair -- I check their paperwork to make certain it's in order. You'd never believe how often it isn't.
All that's required on the packing list is simple -- title, author, date of publication, and value for each item...though Canada also requires country of origin, when we're doing the Toronto Book Fair. It's been like this for years, but while most of the dealers get it, some just flat never do. And they will argue with you about it, like you've changed the rules without telling them, and nevermind that it's their own damn country's requirements.
This gets even more difficult when an item requires an export license. The EU has a system for this, but each country has its own way of doing it.
In Germany, you have to follow certain procedures and go to a particular magistrate who then passes your request for a license off to an expert who eventually gets around to deciding whether or not the item is too important to be allowed to leave Germany, or if it's okay to release. That can take weeks.
France is worse, as I understand it; I think first you need an authorization from someone to be allowed to apply for the license and then it gets applied for, but I'm honestly not sure; we have an agent there to handle that nonsense. Thank God.
Italy issues blanket licenses for pages of books, and then the dealers just mark off the ones they're sending and mark through the ones they aren't. Which doesn't really make sense to me.
The UK is the easiest to deal with. You fill in the form, provide the correct information, submit it to one particular government agency, and normally within a week you've got an answer. They also follow the general guidelines as regards classification of books. For example, anything printed prior to 1501 is considered incunabula and MUST have a license. No matter what. But if a book's over 100 years of age and not valued at more than 41,000GBP, it's fine.
But with some countries, it all depends on the cultural significance of the item. So even if it's within the normal EU guidelines for not needing a license, it may still need one or even be refused authorization for export. So, if your book is packed away and we have it in our warehouse, ready for shipment, and one book out of the hundred isn't allowed to leave the country, the whole shipment is stuck.
And don't get me started on how Customs a) insists on having the original licenses and b) wound up losing some of them, this week, and c) then refused to release the shipment because "they don't do that off photocopies of the licenses." But if the dealer's books ain't in their booth when they arrive to set up, it's all your fault. Fortunately, after a lot of screaming and ranting and raving, the lost licenses were found and the shipment released.
We've had some lovely headaches, this week.
Anyway, the foreign dealers send in packing lists of their shipment along with an invoice summarizing the value of each class -- books, artwork, photography, etc. -- and whether they are over or under 100 years of age. As part of our service -- which includes picking them up, handling export from their country and import to the US, and delivery direct to their booth at the fair -- I check their paperwork to make certain it's in order. You'd never believe how often it isn't.All that's required on the packing list is simple -- title, author, date of publication, and value for each item...though Canada also requires country of origin, when we're doing the Toronto Book Fair. It's been like this for years, but while most of the dealers get it, some just flat never do. And they will argue with you about it, like you've changed the rules without telling them, and nevermind that it's their own damn country's requirements.
This gets even more difficult when an item requires an export license. The EU has a system for this, but each country has its own way of doing it.In Germany, you have to follow certain procedures and go to a particular magistrate who then passes your request for a license off to an expert who eventually gets around to deciding whether or not the item is too important to be allowed to leave Germany, or if it's okay to release. That can take weeks.
France is worse, as I understand it; I think first you need an authorization from someone to be allowed to apply for the license and then it gets applied for, but I'm honestly not sure; we have an agent there to handle that nonsense. Thank God.
Italy issues blanket licenses for pages of books, and then the dealers just mark off the ones they're sending and mark through the ones they aren't. Which doesn't really make sense to me.
The UK is the easiest to deal with. You fill in the form, provide the correct information, submit it to one particular government agency, and normally within a week you've got an answer. They also follow the general guidelines as regards classification of books. For example, anything printed prior to 1501 is considered incunabula and MUST have a license. No matter what. But if a book's over 100 years of age and not valued at more than 41,000GBP, it's fine.
But with some countries, it all depends on the cultural significance of the item. So even if it's within the normal EU guidelines for not needing a license, it may still need one or even be refused authorization for export. So, if your book is packed away and we have it in our warehouse, ready for shipment, and one book out of the hundred isn't allowed to leave the country, the whole shipment is stuck.And don't get me started on how Customs a) insists on having the original licenses and b) wound up losing some of them, this week, and c) then refused to release the shipment because "they don't do that off photocopies of the licenses." But if the dealer's books ain't in their booth when they arrive to set up, it's all your fault. Fortunately, after a lot of screaming and ranting and raving, the lost licenses were found and the shipment released.
We've had some lovely headaches, this week.
March 26, 2015
Feeling a little raw...
I learned a long time ago, if I can't be my characters as I write them, I can't write the story. I churn out fake shit that means nothing. There has to be some event that makes me forget who I am and become the one on the page. Completely. Doesn't matter who the lead is, I have to be him...or her...for a moment.
In HTRASG, probably the book and character that're most unlike me, it was when Curt realizes his half-brother will be all right, despite the fact that the kid grew up under the same circumstances as him. He's going to have a life he can be proud of, with a future and love and acceptance and a willingness to forgive, and it sends Curt into complete meltdown.
In LD, the book closest to me, so far, it's when Daniel's in the shower arguing with his own fictional characters and realizes he's lost control of them...that they may have control of him, instead. So he cuts them out, completely...and feels lost and alone without them. It's not until they return that he feels he can handle the situation he's in, completely.
In The Vanishing of Owen Taylor, it's after Jake's been released from arrest and believes his uncle committed suicide and wants to run and hide from the brutality of it all, and Tone shows up to support him without a word...just a mug of hot cocoa. That's when Jake sees that while he can be strong as a rock, it's only if he's standing on granite. The rest of the story is him learning to feel the same way even when he's on shifting sand.
In Carli's Kills, it's when she realizes she's the cause of an innocent being killed. She doesn't shed a tear, just accepts what happened and decides she will never be responsible for something like that, again. She changes from it. Becomes a person who understands that revenge destroys more than just the guilty. Becomes a real hero.
Well...after a lot of back and forth, I finally found it in Underground Guy. Devlin has an idea who might be the story's serial killer but wants to be sure. Reg knows he's up to something and sort of thinks Dev's helping the killer, so is following him. This nearly gets Reg murdered, but Dev saves his life. However, he is so shaken up by how close Reg came to dying, he blames himself and begins to bawl. What he doesn't realize is, he actually helped the Metropolitan Police locate the maniac and, at least, trap him so no one else can be harmed.
I got that, tonight. And I'm wiped out...like I really lived it. I can tell the story, now. It's become important to me, because it's about a man shifting from being an asshole to being human, again.
That's why The Lyons' Den is so close to my heart -- I am just as crazy as Daniel ever could be. In fact, I sort of minimized some of my own psychoses with him. Sort of. Maybe. Or maybe not.
Never trust a maniac to tell you the truth.
In HTRASG, probably the book and character that're most unlike me, it was when Curt realizes his half-brother will be all right, despite the fact that the kid grew up under the same circumstances as him. He's going to have a life he can be proud of, with a future and love and acceptance and a willingness to forgive, and it sends Curt into complete meltdown.
In LD, the book closest to me, so far, it's when Daniel's in the shower arguing with his own fictional characters and realizes he's lost control of them...that they may have control of him, instead. So he cuts them out, completely...and feels lost and alone without them. It's not until they return that he feels he can handle the situation he's in, completely.
In The Vanishing of Owen Taylor, it's after Jake's been released from arrest and believes his uncle committed suicide and wants to run and hide from the brutality of it all, and Tone shows up to support him without a word...just a mug of hot cocoa. That's when Jake sees that while he can be strong as a rock, it's only if he's standing on granite. The rest of the story is him learning to feel the same way even when he's on shifting sand.
In Carli's Kills, it's when she realizes she's the cause of an innocent being killed. She doesn't shed a tear, just accepts what happened and decides she will never be responsible for something like that, again. She changes from it. Becomes a person who understands that revenge destroys more than just the guilty. Becomes a real hero.
Well...after a lot of back and forth, I finally found it in Underground Guy. Devlin has an idea who might be the story's serial killer but wants to be sure. Reg knows he's up to something and sort of thinks Dev's helping the killer, so is following him. This nearly gets Reg murdered, but Dev saves his life. However, he is so shaken up by how close Reg came to dying, he blames himself and begins to bawl. What he doesn't realize is, he actually helped the Metropolitan Police locate the maniac and, at least, trap him so no one else can be harmed.I got that, tonight. And I'm wiped out...like I really lived it. I can tell the story, now. It's become important to me, because it's about a man shifting from being an asshole to being human, again.
That's why The Lyons' Den is so close to my heart -- I am just as crazy as Daniel ever could be. In fact, I sort of minimized some of my own psychoses with him. Sort of. Maybe. Or maybe not.
Never trust a maniac to tell you the truth.
March 24, 2015
A little bit from Underground Guy
I'm trying to make this as hard-hitting as possible. It's after Devlin's been arrested for attacking a man.
------------------
Just after the beginning of my fourth hour in that pitiless room, a condescending older man entered, tall, brisk and efficient, his uniform as impeccable as his posture. The instant I saw him, I knew he knew he had a big dick, and he planned to smack me around with it. Normally I'd say, "Fine, motherfucker, bring it on." But this man's eyes gleamed with intelligence and anger, which indicated he wasn't going to play word games with me or try any tricks; he was going to hit me head on. The worse kind to meet in a business situation -- the honest type who shoot straight and believe in honor.
He was joined by a younger, darker, pudgier cop with floppy hair whose uniform was still neat but sported a looser collar. His piggy eyes and chubby cheeks made him too damn typical an English lad for me to take any real notice of. They took seats opposite me and set two folders on the table. No tape recorder. No note pads. Nothing. I also noticed the older man's cap and jacket were littered with insignia, which meant, at the very least, he was high-ranking while pudgy boy was lowest of the low. Someone to carry Mr. Insignia's folders and back him up in court, if need be. Oh, this did not bode well.
"So," Mr. Insignia spit out, "Robert Devlin Pope. Junior. It's unusual for the second son to be named after the father."
"I need to take a piss."
He eyed me, for a long moment, then pulled a photograph from one of the folders and lay it on the table. It was of a man's face, twisted in agony, eyes half closed, mouth drawn tight, a wire cutting into his throat, blood dripping from it and foaming around his lips. For a second, I thought it was Reg, he looked so much like him. Man, I was ready for anything but that, so despite my plans to play it Joe Cool to the max...I flinched.
"This happened last night," he said, his voice vicious in its cold hollowness. "Martin Callow. Married. Two children. A business in Feltham, near your hotel. He was raped and stabbed several times in the back as well as being garotted. Was your assault on my constable to help with his murder?"
I was too locked on the horror of the photo to say a word.
He took in an irritated sigh then slapped my cell phone on the table and pointed at the image of Reg; they'd hacked past my security code. "Explain to me how you knew this man was a police officer. How did you know he was a decoy? How long have you been working in tandem with the killer? Is that how this worked? You created a citywide diversion so your other half could have his fun at his leisure?"
I looked at the image of Reg, again. I remembered the worn clothes and unhappy texts. The way he strode down the street. The cops' flashlight shining into the room and saying he'd hate to be Reg. The cop cars rushing around West Hounslow. Now I knew why they were looking for him, and the words slipped right past my censors, "He was undercover..."
"Robert, answer my question."
"I don't answer to Robert," whispered from me, like an afterthought.
"How did you know about Thornton!? Why did you choose him?"
My brain was about to run screaming from the overload of realization, so I gave him a vague shrug and managed to mutter, "I want to speak to someone from the American embassy, please."
"Of course you do." His voice dripped with flat-out hate.
I looked at him. He was pure stone. I knew the answer even before I asked, "You gonna let me?"
"No."
------------------
Just after the beginning of my fourth hour in that pitiless room, a condescending older man entered, tall, brisk and efficient, his uniform as impeccable as his posture. The instant I saw him, I knew he knew he had a big dick, and he planned to smack me around with it. Normally I'd say, "Fine, motherfucker, bring it on." But this man's eyes gleamed with intelligence and anger, which indicated he wasn't going to play word games with me or try any tricks; he was going to hit me head on. The worse kind to meet in a business situation -- the honest type who shoot straight and believe in honor.
He was joined by a younger, darker, pudgier cop with floppy hair whose uniform was still neat but sported a looser collar. His piggy eyes and chubby cheeks made him too damn typical an English lad for me to take any real notice of. They took seats opposite me and set two folders on the table. No tape recorder. No note pads. Nothing. I also noticed the older man's cap and jacket were littered with insignia, which meant, at the very least, he was high-ranking while pudgy boy was lowest of the low. Someone to carry Mr. Insignia's folders and back him up in court, if need be. Oh, this did not bode well.
"So," Mr. Insignia spit out, "Robert Devlin Pope. Junior. It's unusual for the second son to be named after the father.""I need to take a piss."
He eyed me, for a long moment, then pulled a photograph from one of the folders and lay it on the table. It was of a man's face, twisted in agony, eyes half closed, mouth drawn tight, a wire cutting into his throat, blood dripping from it and foaming around his lips. For a second, I thought it was Reg, he looked so much like him. Man, I was ready for anything but that, so despite my plans to play it Joe Cool to the max...I flinched.
"This happened last night," he said, his voice vicious in its cold hollowness. "Martin Callow. Married. Two children. A business in Feltham, near your hotel. He was raped and stabbed several times in the back as well as being garotted. Was your assault on my constable to help with his murder?"
I was too locked on the horror of the photo to say a word.
He took in an irritated sigh then slapped my cell phone on the table and pointed at the image of Reg; they'd hacked past my security code. "Explain to me how you knew this man was a police officer. How did you know he was a decoy? How long have you been working in tandem with the killer? Is that how this worked? You created a citywide diversion so your other half could have his fun at his leisure?"
I looked at the image of Reg, again. I remembered the worn clothes and unhappy texts. The way he strode down the street. The cops' flashlight shining into the room and saying he'd hate to be Reg. The cop cars rushing around West Hounslow. Now I knew why they were looking for him, and the words slipped right past my censors, "He was undercover..."
"Robert, answer my question."
"I don't answer to Robert," whispered from me, like an afterthought.
"How did you know about Thornton!? Why did you choose him?"
My brain was about to run screaming from the overload of realization, so I gave him a vague shrug and managed to mutter, "I want to speak to someone from the American embassy, please."
"Of course you do." His voice dripped with flat-out hate.
I looked at him. He was pure stone. I knew the answer even before I asked, "You gonna let me?"
"No."
