Zodiac

by Neal Stephenson

They employ me as a professional asshole, an innate talent I’ve enjoyed ever since second grade, when I learned how to give my teacher migraine headaches with a penlight.

We traded speculation on what Sam Horn might do against the Yanks. These guys were Negro-haters all, and their heros were gigantic black men with clubs, a contradiction I wasn’t brave enough to point out.

They could do anything, and they would if I told them to; but I’d rather they enjoyed the gig.