You’re not going to drink my blood, are you? Like a vampire?
You’re not going to drink my blood, are you? Like a vampire?
The thing in the bed smiles without smiling. We are, so far as I can express it in your terms, vegetarians.
Yeah, but what about Bowser there? Jonesy points to the legless weasel, and it bares a mouthful of needle teeth in a grotesque grin. Is Bowser a vegetarian?
You know he’s not, the gray thing says, its slit of a mouth not moving—this guy is one hell of a ventriloquist, you had to give him that; they’d love him in the Catskills. But you know you have nothing to fear from him.
Why? How am I different?
The dying gray thing (of course it’s dying, its body is breaking down, decaying from the inside out) doesn’t reply, and Jonesy once again thinks No bounce, no play. He has an idea this is one thought the gray fellow would dearly love to read, but no chance of that; the ability to shield his thoughts is another part of what makes him different, unique, and vive la différence is all Jonesy can say (not that he does say it).
