Bleeding Edge

by Thomas Pynchon

I see my share of conspiracy theories, some are patently bullshit, some I want to believe so much I have to be careful, others are inescapable even if I wanted to escape.

“Oh. Oh, wait just a minute, is this the pause button here, would you mind—” She pauses it. “Problem?” “These weapons, they’re . . . Stinger missiles or something. A bit out of my ground, I hope you appreciate.” And if she wanted a runaround, she’d be over in Central Park. “Right, I keep forgetting, you people tend to be Mannlicher-Carcano types.” “Jackie and I were dear friends,” he replies coolly, “and I’m not sure I oughtn’t to resent that.”

She pretends to sigh. “It’s about the poutine isn’t it, you’ll never forgive me, once again, Felix, I’m sorry I said that—dumb remark, cheap shot.” Going along with it, “In Montreal it’s a diagnostic for moral character—if somebody resists poutine, they resist life.”