Infinite Jest

by David Foster Wallace

At the blade’s sound the situation becomes even more automatic and Gately feels adrenaline’s warmth spread through him as his subdural hardware clicks deeper into a worn familiar long-past track. Having no choice now not to fight and things simplify radically, divisions collapse. Gately’s just one part of something bigger he can’t control. His face in the left headlight has dropped into its fight-expression of ferocious good cheer. He says he’s responsible for these people on these private grounds tonight and is part of this whether he wants to be or not, and can they talk this out because he doesn’t want to have to fight them. He says twice very distinctly that he does not want to fight them. He’s no longer divided enough to think about whether this is true. His eyes are on the two men’s maple-leaf belt buckles, the part of the body where you can’t get suckered by a feint. The guys shake their manes and say they’re going to unembowel this craven bâtard here like this sans-Christe bâtard killed somebody they call either Pépé or Bébé, and if Moose has any self-interest he’ll backpedal away from there’s no way it is his duty to get frapped or fropped for this sick gutless U.S.A. bâtard in his womanly wig. Lenz, apparently thinking they’re Brazilian, pops his head around Gately’s flank and calls them maricones and tells them they can suck his bâtard is what they can do. Gately has just division enough to almost wish he didn’t feel such a glow of familiar warmth, a surge of al...