Guanting Liu > Recent Status Updates

The whore had taken his virginity but wouldn't kiss him; had turned her face aside when he tried to kiss her. She'd allowed him to do whatever else he wanted, but not that. At the time he'd been bitterly disappointed. Now he was glad.

Eddie stopped, looking at a little car near the end of the row, white with red trim. "A Takuro," he said, mostly to himself. He went around to look at the trunk. "A Takuro Spirit, to be exact. Ever hear of that make and model, Jake of New York?"
__Jake shook his head.
__"Me, neither," he said. "Me fucking neither."

"No," Roland replied, looking at the signs, "we're far beyond the boundaries of the world I knew. I was far beyond most of the world I knew long before I met you three. This place ..."

You did it, kiddo, Henry said. Made him set himself on fire. I knew you could, fuckin-A. Remember when I said that to those scag-bags behind Dahlie's? Jimmie Polio and those guys? And how they laughed? But you did it. Sent him home with a fuckin rupture.
__Well, it worked, anyway, Eddie thought, and touched the butt of Roland's gun without even being aware of it. Well enough for us to walk away one more time.

Susannah heard him, but it was Blaine she was thinking of — Blaine who had gone away and left them alone, like the kid who's been chosen "it" obediently covering his eyes while his playmates hide. And wasn't that what they were? Blaine's playmates? The thought was somehow worse than the image she'd had of trying the escape hatch and having her head torn off.

"Fuck you," Roland said. He did not raise his voice. He might have told Blaine that a little Way-Gog would indeed be very nice.

"Because he's a pain," Jake repeated in a low voice.

"You're planning to commit suicide, aren't you?" Jake held Oy in his arms, slowly stroking him. "And you want to take us with you."

The only thing about this splendid room which seemed wrong was its lack of even a single window.

The stranger standing in front of the hatch wore a short, dark jacket belted at the waist, faded denim trousers, and old, dusty boots—the boots of a country-man, a range-rider, or—
"Or a gunslinger, Andrew?" the stranger asked, and tittered.