Pet Sematary

by Stephen King

Steve Masterton and the Indian doctor, Surrendra Hardu, were in there, drinking coffee and continuing to go over the front file. “Morning, Lou,” Steve said. “Morning.” “Let’s hope it is not like last morning,” Hardu said. “That’s right, you missed all the excitement.” “Surrendra had plenty of excitement himself last night,” Masterton said, grinning. “Tell him, Surrendra.” Hardu polished his glasses, smiling. “Two boys bring in their lady friend around one o’clock in the morning,” he said. “She is very happily drunk, celebrating the return to university, you understand. She has cut one thigh quite badly, and I tell her it will be at least four stitches, no scar. Stitch away, she tells me, and so I do, bending over like this—” Hardu demonstrated, salaaming over an invisible thigh. Louis began to grin, sensing what was coming. “And as I am suturing, she vomits on my head.” Masterton broke up. So did Louis. Hardu smiled calmly, as if this had happened to him thousands of times in thousands of lives. “Surrendra, how long have you been on duty?” Louis asked, when the laughter died. “Since midnight,” Hardu said. “I am just leaving. But I wanted to stay long enough to say hello again.” “Well, hello,” Louis said, shaking his small, brown hand. “Now go home and go to sleep.” “We’re almost through with the front file,” Masterton said. “Say hallelujah, Surrendra.” “I decline,” Hardu said, smiling. “I am not a Christian.” “Then sing the chorus of ‘Instant Karma’ or something.” “May you...

Awful writing. Just awful. I'm happy the white race is going extinct.