Firestarter

by Stephen King

Rainbird was a troll, an orc, a balrog of a man. He stood two inches shy of seven feet tall, and he wore his glossy hair drawn back and tied in a curt ponytail. Ten years before, a Claymore had blown up in his face during his second tour of Vietnam, and now his countenance was a horrorshow of scar tissue with runneled flesh. His left eye was gone. There was nothing where it had been but a ravine. He would not have plastic surgery or an artificial eye because, he said, when he got to the happy hunting ground beyond, he would be asked to show his battlescars. When he said such things, you did not know whether to believe him or not; you did not know if he was serious or leading you on for reasons of his own. Over the years, Rainbird had been a surprisingly good agent—partially because the last thing on earth he looked like was an agent, mostly because there was an apt, ferociously bright mind behind that mask of flesh. He spoke four languages fluently and had an understanding of three others. He was taking a sleep course in Russian. When he spoke, his voice was low, musical, and civilized. “Good afternoon, Cap.” “Is it afternoon?” Cap asked, surprised. Rainbird smiled, showing a big set of perfectly white teeth—shark’s teeth, Cap thought. “By fourteen minutes,” he said. “I picked up a Seiko digital watch on the black market in Venice. It is fascinating. Little black numbers that change constantly. A feat of technology. I often think, Cap, that we fought the war in Vietnam not...

This is a supremely stupid book

The expression of contempt on Rainbird’s face did not change. “No, of course you don’t think that is possible. You look at my face and you see a monster. You look at my hands and see them covered with the blood you ordered me to spill. But I tell you, Cap, it will happen. The girl has had no friend for going on two years. She has had her father and that is all. You see her as you see me, Cap. It is your great failing. You look, you see a monster. Only in the girl’s case, you see a useful monster. Perhaps that is because you are a white man. White men see monsters everywhere. White men look at their own pricks and see monsters.” Rainbird laughed again.

Just the lucky ones, Rainbird…

She had been so much in a fog of shock, guilt, and—yes—exhilarated triumph that it was really no wonder she hadn’t been able to place his face. Probably she could have been escorted back to her apartment by Gene Simmons of Kiss without noticing it.

Unlikely, Steve!