Christine

by Stephen King

“Arnie, you’re having me on, aren’t you?” I said.

“Your face isn’t stupid, Arnie,” I said. “Queer-looking, maybe, but not stupid.”

We goofed around the croquet course for a while, not really playing, just whopping the Jesus out of each other’s balls.

“Eat me raw through a Flavor Straw,” Dennis said solemnly.

Down the aisle, the fellow who had been putting on his winter snows dropped a tool on the concrete. It clanged musically and the fellow chanted, almost chorally, “Oh shit on you, you whore.”

So the family visit was a gay one—due