Chapter 7 6

------------------ 6 Killing in self-defense.According to the law, the situation of reducing sentences exists.Killing can be forgiven.The grievances that were too deep to go to war finally happened between us and the Soski family.At this point I need the peace of mind to focus on Bernie's bestseller.Should he call the police again or kill that Suo boy himself?Hmph, I swear I can hit him between the eyebrows with a single shot, and blood will flow out from the bullet hole between his foreheads, causing him to fall to the ground and die.If ever I could kill someone, it's today.I was so angry that my face turned blue, and the pen in my hand kept shaking.A 17-year-old George Soski next door will be a canker sore on us.His periodic attacks brought severe infections and unbearable pain, each more severe than the last.Calling the police will only add fuel to the fire and lead to an even bigger disaster.In addition, although Gentz ​​is dead, the charges have been temporarily suppressed, after all, the arrest warrant is still valid.Remaining silent meant resignation to a growing humiliation that would have gnashed the teeth of a saint.

Furious and hostile, George Soski, a fatherless 17-year-old Polish farmer, was having hysterical fits again.At this point I was about to take down page four.He had been waiting for the opportunity, and he picked the moment very precisely to start making trouble. Long before I tried to kill this horrific bastard, there was a historical grudge, a series of events caused by psychological and territorial conflicts. The Soski family includes mother Maud, foreman and driller; Henry, a 33-year-old kid who is said to be a moron; Alma, a 30-year-old fanatical fast horse rider and determined spinster; George, the most mischievous man in America--a good honest church-going Catholic.They are all in the family.The Soskies owned 60 acres at last measurement, but the family was crafty enough to realize that these 60 acres restricted their activities in the wider field.As a result, the Soski family crossed the line like a big ass sitting on a narrow bench, occupying all the hills in Goublesville.They drive scooters, snowmobiles, tractors, dirt bikes, horses and cattle, trampling the land to their heart's content, destroying everything they go, erosion and destruction caused by them in their own way Mark of.The family's horses and cattle roamed the highway with near-fatal casualties.Mama Maud let the animals out of her own farm to graze in the neighbors' gardens and flowerbeds, taking the opportunity to find out what kind of people her neighbors were. "What a nuisance these neighbors are!" shrieked Maud one bright spring morning, shaking her pointy head upward. "Why is that... that banshee down there calling the police! They can do whatever they want, they took our dung away first, and then they called the police! The police!" Maud yelled, her daughter The bass reverberates for a long time throughout the valley.

I think that was the serious incident that happened two summers ago (it seems to be relatively smooth before that).It happened to little George, the mother's little angel who was so bored that no one else was home.Mom and Alma and Henry all went to work in the factory.Apparently fed up with masturbation and tired of building gas-powered gliders, he took his brother's super-volume hi-fi up the hill toward my house for the first of a series of rock concerts.The show went on and on, day after day, and we pretended to be deaf and dumb.The little squirrel got a migraine and the robin started laying cracked eggs.As long as you have syphilis, it will subside one day.

"Maud, please," I stammered, finally begging for mercy, "he's driving me crazy!" "There's no way. The kid won't listen to me," she said, shrugging. "What should I do?" Maud shrugged again.Finally, one of her horses was hit by a car while rampaging down the road—the horse rolled over and walked indifferently away from a Volkswagen it had wrecked.She shrugged.She shrugged when his half-handsome son, Henry, inadvertently chopped down the neighbor's tree.That's all the fault of the trees, they didn't grow out of place, Maude argued.Next comes the conflict with my family's property.It was our fault who gave us gardens and flowerbeds and lawns, as did the other family, who owed her life for a load of horse manure.

Two summers ago, foolishly seeking justice, I called the sheriff's office.Big joke, I laugh at myself.I, a thief who stole pens and paper clips, and an unsightly person who made long-distance calls secretly, even asked the police for help.They rushed over and said they were willing and able to protect my rights. "Enough. Turn it off!" Deputy Sheriff Goublesville ordered.His brows were furrowed by the banging of the tweeters, which showed that he also hated these teenagers-the African natives ruined the tranquility of the Apple Blossom-covered Goublesville Mountains. "But listening to music doesn't break the law, does it?" said the Jackson boy timidly.He came up to enjoy the music.

"Who are you?" bellowed the deputy sheriff. "I?" "I am talking about you!" "Rick." "Rick what?" "Rick Jackson." "What are you doing here?" I crossed my arms in secret glee as he grilled the kid. "I am his friend." "Then shut your mouth, understand?" "Just now I--" "I said shut your mouth, I mean what I say!" the deputy sheriff yelled hard to drown out the noise, and at the same time glanced at George, who was standing aside, with his arms folded deliberately, and the mocking grin on his face made him laugh. People gag.

"Hey, are you going to turn it off or not?" George stood there expressionless, without any reaction.What was going on in that little, bright-eyed, fair-haired head I couldn't understand.Is his attitude for his friends or does it show that he is really not afraid of the intimidation of the police?Did it treat the policeman like his mother?She'd always give in after a lot of rants and angry words, and then went off to buy him a new electric chainsaw or a scooter. "Listen, you're breaking the law," I interjected, hoping he wouldn't push me too far. "You could be arrested and put in jail. Right?" I asked the policeman.He nodded and shook the handcuffs in his hand.

"If this gentleman charges you, I'll arrest you for molestation," cried the deputy sheriff. "I don't care," grumbled George.He made an elegant Soski-esque shrug, his shoulders rolled up and forward, his face tilted slightly to one side, and the muscles in his mouth contracted strangely, causing his lower lip to protrude, revealing the slenderness of his face. A look of hostility.What was going on in that kid's mind?George was, of course, using the Soski family's logic: it was my ears that were causing the trouble, not his appliances.Had he been arrested, wrongly, the court and his mother would have found him innocent.George will have revenge, and I will go to jail.

Then suddenly the sheriff comes up, the 300-pound cop waddling with authority and uncanny agility up to the lad, handcuffs, holsters, baton and whatnot behind his ass jingling . Oh, how I should like to see George squatting in Goobswell, or Artica, or Newheart.I have no specific requirements as to which prison it is.However, I can't indulge in wonderful fantasies.If George were arrested on my behalf, I would offend the Sox family, and the rest of his family would cease to quarrel and join hands with me in a feud that would last forever.At the same time, I myself will be in a very dangerous and disadvantageous position.Maud hinted at it to me.The mountain road leading to my house passes in front of their farm, on the border of his house.This is a strategic Mittler passage, as long as there is a slight discord with them, they can easily cut off our passage, and we will be blocked.By then I could never afford to rent a helicopter to take us down the mountain.

The police officer came up, blushing, and a miracle happened: George suddenly softened.He pulled the plug.It's that simple.The deafening thunder turned into deathly silence.I sighed and smiled, and thanked the local police in Goublesville from the bottom of my heart. "Well, for you Charlie," I was about to turn away when the Polish boy warned me with a glare. threaten?I smiled gently—the tolerance of a mature man for an arrogant young man.I shrugged at him. The road leading to the mountain is like the road leading to heaven.peaceful.Absolute tranquility is captivating.Again I could hear the birds chirping in the trees, the wind rustling the pines and the planes buzzing overhead.

I lay on the warm lawn in front of the house, listening to the flies whistling in my ears.I yawned, closed my eyes and dozed off.The suddenly peaceful atmosphere was broken by the sound of the engine starting.I stood up abruptly.Right there, a few steps away, George Soski was revving up his new chainsaw and starting his plan to cut down the trees around my house without stepping outside his property. up.The apple trees that produced sweet apples in the autumn fell, one by one the tall and majestic oaks, the fair maples, and the lovely plum trees. I watched in annoyance as the moose-possessed George Soski wrecked my garden and left one side of the house bare - the roots still sit there to this day and rot away - exposed house Become the target of Morde, who loves to spy on other people's secrets. Yes.Go to war.Killing in self-defense.I can now rewrite a new sociopolitical chapter of the Soski family history, based on past experiences and excerpts from my past: Monday: A warm winter day.The snow softened and the creek started to flow.There is even bare soil on the southern slope of the mountain.As the weather warms up and the smell of horse manure from the Soskies' stables returns in good time as ever, our dear neighbors are at it again.Alma, the wonderful horse lover, suddenly decided last week to tie up her three nasty scumbags in the middle of our road.When we drove up the hill we had to stop at the hitch, spank the horses' butts, and sneak past them so often that the car got stuck in soft snow. It had been five days in this warm and cold January, and the horses had been out in the open in the rain and snow, with melting snow on the ground, and their tethers were less than a foot long.The ropes were too short and tied so tight that they couldn't even turn their heads, they were almost locked in place, so they stamped on the ground with iron hooves, turning up mud waist-deep in the mud that I've worked so hard all year round with picks and knuckles. The road repaired by the shovel was completely ruined. Should I protest regardless of the consequences? Tuesday: Another day of watching my roads be trampled on and the fruits of my labor destroyed.If it's colder, at least they have hard ice under their hooves instead of wetlands.But now the road has become muddy and impassable at all. Oh shit!I had to forget about it and concentrate on doing the job I just found. Wednesday: It's so unfair!They have no right to abuse my labor.Such things have been commonplace since we were neighbors.I plant flowers and plants, they pull them up, I clean them up and they get dirty.Shattered glass tore through car belts; empty cans with dog-toothed edges were thrown and scratched children's feet on their way to school.I wish I had a bazooka, then I'd wipe them all out.A mortar or two would do the trick.Perhaps their horses should be poisoned?No.Ma is not guilty.It's the Soski family who should be poisoned, and that's what I should do. Thursday: Level-headed Vivica is also on fire.Aha, it seems that I am not the only one who is sensitive and impulsive to be angry.They really are a bunch of scoundrels.Ah, just a squad would suffice - hand grenades thrown in through their windows, like WWII raids.If this were a time of war, I'd be able to raze their homes with impunity.I can sue them.Besides, George might not be home, he might have been drafted.Those horses may have been sent to the military as well.Haha, that's funny.What's the use, I still can't get rid of them. Try to forget it.forget?How can it be?I think about it every time I drive home.Every time I look out the window I see them ruining my way. Friday: Enough is enough.I walked towards Soski's house below, although I tried my best to restrain myself, my face was still red.They are eating around the kitchen table.Henry, who was buried in his soup when I entered the room, looked up.They all looked up at my intruder.Sorry.etc.etc.good weather.It's like spring.I'm fine.Would you please move the horse away? Maud raised her head, the soup in her mouth dripped down her cheeks, and she made a Soxhlet shrug.Not her horse.Not mine, said Henry's brother.Not mine, said the little bastard.Not mine, said the fool.Alma, what does the owner of the perpetrator say?He didn't speak a word.Not even a shrug of the shoulders.Not even a fart.Nudelman backed out clumsily, you nigger among whites, Jew among hill dwellers.I wait.Someday they yell obscenities about Jews—unless I can convince them that I'm Christian, Viveka, an immigrant from Sweden, and she's Jewish. Saturday: Don't cause trouble, don't make trouble.I'd rather ignore their damage to my road, but for about a week, it's been gnawing at my stomach and muscles like a worm, making me miserable.I haven't finished a single page of Bernie's book.My job and my income are on the hang.Pete Miller's hard genitals had been drilled against a hole for almost a week - I couldn't tell whose it was.Those horses are destroying my sane nerves, how can I catch the thread of the story?Bernie called just this morning to find out what was going on. "I'm excited to see the rewrite," he yells when I tell him we're on chapter three.Bernie is already on the 19th or something, and I haven't even finished page three.Last night I dreamed that Bernie was driving up from New York to read what I had finished.Luckily his Cadillac got stuck in the mud trodden by the horses and couldn't get into my house. Sunday morning: The Soskies go to church.Father Goodness, whatever his unlucky name, was telling them how to be a good Christian.Tell them how to be a good neighbor, that's what you should be telling them!Show them how to be a polite, compassionate, real human being, you stupid God-fearing bastard! Do you know how crazy I am--I dare to curse the priest, he is the messenger of God.Maybe he's some good red-faced old man who passes here every Sunday, preaching to his flock how I've mistreated their savior.I'm crazy enough that I'll abuse Maud and even do things like stick a handful of thorns up her pussy. Sunday Afternoon: Desperate, I removed her horse myself.That's not easy.The road was completely useless - I had to dig and fill up that section again in the spring - and I wouldn't be human if I let them ruin an inch more. I approached cautiously the first horse—it was visibly agitated by two weeks of captivity in the tiny enclosure.Its fur was felted with mud.It pricked up its ears nervously as I approached.Then suddenly, as if realizing that I was its real friend, it kicked me with its front legs, almost kicking my crotch.Relax, man.good horse.I talked to him like in a cowboy movie, and within ten minutes he kicked a few times, then went quiet.I thought it was going to bite off my finger, when suddenly it kicked my shoulder.It is purely the Soski family's way of revenge, exactly the same.The victory was hard-won, anger finally became decisive, and I walked towards the other two horses.In comparison, the first horse can be regarded as a docile sheep. I was sweating profusely from nervousness.An hour later I climbed the long steps and collapsed on the bed paralyzed. "He moved our horses!" I heard Maud's beautiful voice circling the hilltop.So cunning.She must have found the horses back in their stables. "You goddam daddy got our horses!" she squealed like a bird of prey, which she was.Oh-oh.The children are below. "His clumsy hands set our horses. Tie them so tight they can't turn their heads. You tell him, wait, wait, wait." Half an hour later the children returned home excitedly. "Mrs. Soski said—" Leaf, who was out of breath, spoke first. "I know. I know. Ignore her." "George said he's coming up with the tractor, and said you'd better move the car off the road or he'd run it over!" Magnus said, blinking uneasily. "Relax. Ignore them. Don't listen to them—" I heard the tractor come up.By the time I got to the window George was driving his truck just over my car and up the road that circled our hill.He's apparently trying to grind up the lot I just planted seeds last fall, and he's doing it purely because I told him not to.The trail that circles my home is always peaceful, and it separates our hilltops from Soski's land.Because it has not been used for a long time, the whole road is beautifully decorated with moss and ferns.Every once in a while, there is a trickling snow water stream that flows all year round.During a brief period of collaboration, the Soskies and I worked together to pull some tree stumps up the end of the road to hold up the junction to the back hill.Maude said it was to stop the "drunkard" who lived in the back mountain (in fact, he was afraid that I would plant something on her head).And I don't let those "uncivilized people" (as they are known to the locals) drive my jeep or dirt bike to ruin my road. It's the roads ahead rather than the roads behind that could be attacked.The enemy is those devout believers, not "uncivilized people", and I realized that George was running over all the way-he didn't care about his sister's horse at all, and he didn't care about whether there was anything growing in the field, what he was worried about was his Sensitive antennas cannot accurately pick up radio signals. I strode down the steps and slashed across the edge of the woods to intercept him. "Wait!" I cried, the voice of reason in the moor, and I stood in the middle of the road. George sat high on the humming behemoth and stared down at me fiercely. "What do you want?" he said aloud. "This matter has nothing to do with you." "Get out of the way, will you let me go? This is also the road of my house." "I know it is." "Come on, don't waste my gas," he said, wanting to run over me. "George," I begged, looking into his blue eyes, which were burnt out with the flames of hate, "you know I've planted the seed." "I don't care." He hummed dumbly. "But I'll take care of it. At least let it grow." "I don't care." "Look, George, you have nothing to do with those horses. You're smarter than them." George sighed and put his foot on the brake impatiently.The machine then boomed, eager to rush forward.The wheels were about as tall as I was. "Give up this path. If you still care about our friendship." I tried to bring up the past, when he was a clear-headed, talkative kid eager to show off the remote-controlled plane he bought.That model cost Mod $150. "If you don't want to die, get out! Go!" He said through gritted teeth.At the same time the tractor wobbled forward. "You're a nuisance--a nuisance!" he cried hoarsely.The wheels are eating the ground.I stood there watching him drive up the hill, the machine tearing the pavement apart, the wheels flying wet mud all over the place.I stood and listened as the sound faded around the bend. ① The original text in the Bible should be voice in the wildemess, which means "the voice of the wilderness". (Matthew 3.3). Lincoln's father was right.When you see smoke starting to rise from your neighbor's chimney, it's time to move. Sunday night: I'm an adult.Why let a little hairy child bully?no.The back road is no longer usable.I walked along it just now, and as I guessed, the road was broken, and George's tractor had even diverted creeks.There was a mess everywhere.But only half the road belongs to him, and this is America.Isn't it right?Plus, a person is only truly hurt if they acquiesce.I will not acquiesce. I kept going until the end of the road.Indeed, the roadblock that marked the only time that "Judaism and the Vatican" worked together in Goobsville was removed.Thousands of "drunkards" come from here, down to Maud's window, and frighten her until her heart stops beating and her eyeballs pop out of their sockets. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, forming a wisp of white smoke that drifted from my mouth under the moonlight.The weather suddenly became icy cold, as if floods suddenly fell from the sky after years of drought.The road was hard again, and there was a crackling sound under the feet.I strolled down the hill past the house and continued down—intuition, perhaps suspicion, driving me toward my car in moonlight sliced ​​by the shadows of bare trees. I can see the whole picture of Soski's house from a condescending height.The house's hollow brick foundation sits a little higher.Looking from a distance, the light from the window is flickering, reflecting the ice on the glass, what a peaceful and warm home.As soon as I got to the car, it started to sleet, the moon was blocked, and tiny snowflakes fell down one after another.I looked down at my car, and for a moment I didn't realize it, I thought it was an illusion caused by the darkness.I ran my hands over the broken body parts of the car and couldn't believe it was real.The entire left side of the car was squeezed in, along with the fenders, and the lights and other parts were shattered, as a result of being recklessly hit by the guy from the Sole family with his tractor.I looked back at Soski's house in disgust. There was no peace and warmth there. It was the middle of the night and I was still so angry I couldn't sleep, like someone who has just been robbed and must feel tainted and robbed when he finds out that his most cherished possessions have been rummaged through by a stranger. Insulted, violated.Well, it's over.Try to forget about it.Forgive and forget.That car wasn't worth much anyway, and a fender or something was nothing compared to what my ancestors suffered at the hands of the Poles and Cossacks.OK.So my family is not from Poland or Russia.Why do you keep going around in circles on terminology? Monday: Did I say it's all over?Why do I think I can easily get away with all this? George doesn't seem to go to school at all these days.He's going to give us another rock concert.At least he doesn't destroy my stuff anymore.I just have to force myself to learn to appreciate a talented band like Fat Cow Magu and No Way. Tuesday: How is today?I asked Vivica.Will there be more music?Or the tractor drives even crazier?Did their horses go back to where they were?Or is the pavement damaged by three-headed nails again? It was all our job to discuss the Soskies and figure out what was going on in their heads.We search in vain for their motives.George is very much like his mother, rough, cunning, and even his emotional changes are consistent with his mother-not to sleep in the same room with his mother for 14 years.Maud didn't need to tell him to come up the hill in the tractor, the self-righteous, bloodthirsty, ready-to-ignite guy was already driving up before she could yell.George was such a mischief because he was, or at least had been, the brightest and most promising of Maud's cubs.I've watched him grow up over the past 12 years, and his growth is a living testimony to Maud's greatest failure.She had raised him with hatred and prejudice, not good food for thought.She finally produced another sour apple.As for George, he finally became a headstrong man.Be as careless as Bernie Kaufman.maybe not? George learned not only to be a deacon when he went to the Catholic school, but also learned to read and write--and I remember him doing it pretty well.It seemed promising at the time that George could very well break out of the Soski family mold shaped by his late authoritarian father, which had successfully molded his staid older brother and lifeless older sister.He disobeyed Maud's rule, demanded an explanation of why, fought her hard, and almost succeeded.However, when George entered high school, all progress stopped suddenly.He suddenly became melancholy, cold and irritable.Maud, who has always been controlling him, changed his previous practice and bought him all kinds of expensive machinery and small toys to satisfy his love for machinery.She is afraid that one day her beloved baby will go away and never come back. Why is there such a big change?Is it inevitable?Was it because George had a mother like Maud and siblings like Alma and Henry?Was it because George had hit puberty and started getting pimples and nocturnal emissions?The Soskies are certainly different.They never travel. (The furthest they've been is Whamsatswell, which is only 50 miles away; then Maud made a trip to New York just after World War II, which she hated.) Nor do they ever watch Movie.Eating out seemed ridiculous to them, since it was so convenient to save all the money by just going to the supermarket below.It seemed that Maud had managed to cut off all outside influences except television and church.They smugly create a world of their own: "Soskiville," as Perry puts it. But these are superficial phenomena, Vivica argues.She also spent 12 years learning how to live from behind Soski's curtain.The best understanding of George's on-and-off hostility is that - as we observe - the Soskies have no family life.They never expressed anything but indignation, never spoke to each other, and at best gave an annoyed snort or called an old fool.So when George felt the need to talk to someone, had a bad idea to vent to and there was no one to talk to, he came at us, Vivica thought so.His tweeter is begging us for help.These analyzes are all correct and appropriate, except that I don't want to be a psychiatrist for the sake of a psychopath. What the kid himself needed, Dr. En said, was some time away from the family, for him to hitchhike across North America on foot, for a shipping job in Alaska, for him to join the Navy to cool his head in the sea breeze. When George was still sane, I hinted that he should travel for a while after high school. "where to?" "Anywhere," I suggested. "why?" "Why? Well, to get some new impressions. Go to California after graduation." "I don't like it there." "How do you know? Haven't been there yet." "Saw it on TV." "Either go to New York." "New York smells too bad. Too many cars." "Can you hear it on TV?" "Travel. You know how to travel. Go here. Go there. I just like here." It's fine to stay at home, but he is destined to grow into another depressed Henry in Maud's mother's hands. What Vivica and I wondered was why these children were still living with a nasty shrew mother who was yelling and complaining all the time.Why are children of their own age so attached to a mother who expresses a mean, confrontational mood towards a gentle and caring parent?Why, I lamented, why should I waste my precious time psychoanalyzing the Soskies? Tuesday afternoon: Write a letter to Maude. Dear Maude: I am writing to you because it is easier to express my feelings on paper, and to avoid misunderstandings. What has happened between our two families in the past few days is really not worth it.I fully realize that half of that road belongs to you.But I want you to realize that I blazed the trail -- with my hands and hard work.Your horse was on that part of the road for almost two weeks, ruining most of my labor, and making it impossible for us to drive home. Frankly speaking, you were on good terms with us just now, but you turned your back on me a minute later, I really don't understand why.Our affection for you and your whole family is constant, and you know that.Over the years we have been good neighbors, helping and caring for each other.A series of recent events seems to have completely shattered all previous good wishes. On Sunday afternoon, I carefully (while risking my own injury) removed your horse after my pleas to be taken away went unanswered.I paid for road repairs, car repairs, and the annoyance of constant noise throughout the day. I think our friendship is worth far more than a fender, so I'm willing to forget about it, as long as you think about our needs and keep that road open. As you used to say, a close neighbor is not as good as a distant relative.I totally agree with you. Please let us end this and return to the way things used to be. neil TUESDAY NIGHT: I was driving down the hill to see Maude just as she was coming back from get off work.After she and Alma got out of the shiny Duster, I went up to hand her the letter. "What's that?" she said, looking at me suspiciously. "A letter. Please read it and think about it, then give me a call." "You have no right to move my horse." "Did I hurt them? Did I?" Maud frowned and smiled, and the pumpkin-like Alma grinned stupidly. "I just think--" "They're not your property, and—" "What do you think I like to lead horses? They almost kicked me!" I exaggerated.Maud smiled.Maybe she thinks it's funny, maybe she's expecting me to die.What kind of thinking is it?It's all the same anyway. "There's something I want you to see," I said, taking her by the hand—with her other clutching my letter to him.The only mail she ever received was a union newsletter. "Look," I said, pointing to the twisted fender. "Who did it?" "George, he is impatient to open the road behind, and remove the barricade above to stop the drunk." "You mean what you say?" She inspected the damaged half of the car with great interest. Tuesday night: "What am I going to do with that kid?" Maud confided on the phone, in a friendly voice.Her feelings are the same as before, and all good wishes have been picked up again. "I really don't know what goes through his head sometimes." "He's boring." "I worked in a factory all day and I came home exhausted. They changed my qualifications and put me in a lower shift. The union didn't pay me a dime. Had a headache. Had a backache. One stop. All day. No one at home except me. Ten more people fired. The young people on the shop floor now—the boys—are a bunch of slugs." An hour later we were great friends.Maud agrees with me.We all agree: they continue to shit on our necks and continue to destroy our land, make noise, and destroy property.In the face of all this, we should still be devout believers. If you spank your left buttocks, stretch out your right buttocks for him to kick.Alas, at least it's over.Ugh. ①The "Bible" advocates that when someone slaps you on the left cheek, stretch out the right cheek and let him slap you. Wednesday: It's over?The horse incident may be over, (the horse? The horse incident is history in comparison. Does that count as the beginning of all this?) But today is the trouble of being shot again. For an hour, George sat on the doorstep and shot a can.It didn't matter, except that his target was in a straight line with the road below our house.We are blocked on the hill.He'd been firing regularly—more than a hundred rounds already—at what sounded like a heavy-bore gun.Vivica wanted to go down the mountain to pick up the children who got off the school bus, but she didn't dare to run down the mountain.If we ran over there and got hit, it would be our fault, because we got into the fire. I have come to understand and fundamentally understand that the endless conflicts in the Middle East and the disputes that take place there, especially over territorial invasions, can only be resolved by force. 这样一来我的选择范围是否立即缩小了？我是否应当袭击路下方的游击队营地杀死那个队长？是否对每一个敌方挑起的侵略行径都要以牙还牙？下一步是不是轮到我的孩子致残啦？Why?我要问在森林中游荡的神灵，为什么那些凶恶战神屠杀农家人的事情一定要发生在像堪萨斯这样遥远的地方呢？嗅，佩里?史密斯和迪克?希科克，你们现在在哪里呢？ 维维卡焦急地看着表，再有五分钟校车就到了。我正准备肚皮贴地从他的火力网下方匍匐过去，下边突然停火了。维维卡开上车冲了下去。 又有声响了。射击。毁坏的道路和急速奔上山的汽车。真有你的，乔治宝贝儿。好啦，为了你，查理。我跳进汽车径直朝保安员的办公室开去，让他们的逮捕令见鬼去吧。正像我们在布鲁克林时常说的：够了就是够了。 坐在桌子后边的副治安官用微笑与我打招呼。我心里激灵了一下。幸运的是这不是那个摇摇晃晃上山给我送传票的笨家伙。我很不安，因为在古伯斯威尔隐姓埋名是绝对不可能的，你放个屁别人都会知道。例如，昨天邮递员来到的时候，我就那么倒霉偏偏呆在信箱旁边。 “电费单据，”艾尔莫说着从吉普车的窗口探头出来递给我一个信封。“还有一个账单是牙医的。”他在把它递给我之前验证了一个信封说。“病房的价目表。你知道——已经是春季大减价的时候了。”邮递员特别想聊天。“噢，差一点忘了。这儿还有一封你妈妈的来信。你为什么不常给她写信？” 说几句秘密话，而且分享100美元。我在保安官员耳边悄悄说，他马上就把我带到了侦探长的办公室了。秘密话是“索斯基”。由于我对“坡下的女妖”大量的指控，他们已经建了一套索斯基卷宗。很显然我也算得上是个名人哩。 “要知道，你是一个非常幸运的人，努德尔曼先生，”侦探利斯普坦蒂尼刚刚抛弃了妻子跟17岁的高胸脯姑娘格莱迪斯?狄佩搞上了（无法隐姓埋名也是双行道呢）。“据我们所知，我们手里还有一张关于你的拘捕令呢。” “哦？真的吗？”我脸一红假装吃惊地说。 “像是那个叫根茨的，他刚在指控书上签了字就死了。”他咧一下嘴说。 “噢，是的。根茨，”我满嘴喷着唾沫星快速地嘟囔了一些关于根茨教授意外的悲剧性的死亡等等礼貌用语，忽然第一次意识到，在与市属大学的永远存在的敌对状态中我是属于“右”派的。 “好啦，我们能替你做些什么？”利侦探边问我边用手铐的边缘剔指甲缝里的脏东西。 我向他解释了近来索斯基一家给我造成的窘境。 “嗯，把情况写一写，我们就可以拘捕那个小伙子了。”利斯普坦蒂尼长官说着脸上现出了光彩。“他撞坏你的汽车的时候你没有及时来找我们，太糟糕了。不应该把那类事情拖得太久。现在对他的捣乱行为不可能罚得太重……尽管有谋杀企图量刑会重一些。好些年没有碰见这种事了。”他美滋滋地说，而我则怀疑自己是不是听错了。也许乔治没有错？也许我该搬家了？也许他真肯帮助我？也许是索斯基每个星期天都按时祈祷的尊敬的无所不知的上帝正通过乔治给我传递信息？趁着你还清醒，依然活着，赶紧离开古伯斯威尔。 “不逮捕不行吗？” "uncertain." “这小子真正想要的是引人注意。恕我直言，我认为他可能需要精神病医生的帮助。” “一旦他被捕并受到控告，作为解决问题的办法之一，法庭会强制他接受精神治疗。”长官说。他对拘捕乔治十分感兴趣，不论采用什么方式。 “可是我并不想让他遭逮捕！” “应该这么看，假如他真的有病，你就帮了他一个大忙。” “那我自己呢？假如那孩子真的因为我而遭逮捕，受监控，那我也许该拍屁股走人了。” “你的理由十分正当、有力，”他若有所思地说，“为什么不指控他们全家？” 星期三夜：侦探长利斯普坦蒂尼的话也在理——我的意思是，除了这一个，他现在正驯服格莱迪斯。逮捕乔治。让他在古伯斯威尔监狱里慢慢腐烂。这样的危险处境使我别无选择。我有了坚决而又聪明的决定：无非又多了一件事，多了一个刺激，我现在只能孤注一掷……噢——噢……我想我听到了音乐声。 星期三深夜（或许是凌晨？）：音乐声响了一夜。好呀，伙计。这是往骆驼背上添加的最后一根稻草。明天一早我马上就去找侦探长利斯普坦蒂尼，我们将一起把控告记录扔到乔治的面前……决心已定我便感觉好多了，可以说是心平气和，心旷神怡！Hahaha.瞧这小混蛋怎样在铁窗后挣扎吧。真令人欣喜若狂。说不定在提审之前他就会因痛苦至极先把自己吊死呢。 星期四早晨：音乐声响了一宿，现在仍在播放。混合节目。滚石乐。西部乡村歌曲。奇怪的是还有大段大段的白话。不过有点不对劲。声音传来的方向不对。究竟在哪儿？ 我穿上衣服出去查看。终于找到了声音的来源。昨天从保安官那里回来以后我显然心境难平而忘记关掉汽车里的收音机了。它整整开了一夜，电池都快耗尽了。乔治?索斯基应该赔偿我的损失。 星期四下午：鸦雀无声。鸟儿也不叫了。乔治已经从学校回来了两个多小时，怎么还不见他有什么行动呢？ 星期四夜：什么事也没发生。绝对相安无事。 星期五早晨：寂静使我心神不宁。或许他正在搞能毁掉我们的什么玩艺儿？或许他只是在积蓄力量以做最后的猛攻？他的沉默比他的举动更让人沉不住气。所有这些内容哪些适合伯尼的小说呢？为了掩饰我的狼狈困境，我给伯尼打了个电话，并且告诉他比我预想的进展得快得多。 星期五下午：乔治?索斯基朝我们的房子走上来了。我跑进自己房间里躲起来。我不能忍受看到他的面孔。通过卧室木板墙的裂缝所看到的让我惊呆了，乔治正友好地跟维维卡打招呼。 “好啊，”乔治小声说，“还想让我给你们修理那个橱柜吗？” 星期六：你能懂吗？野蛮行径就像突然爆发时一样又突然消失了。今天上午乔治在厨房里修理橱柜，他吹着口哨，行为举止俨然像一个正常的17岁小伙子。他好像明白我的心思，意识到了我不会容忍进一步的侵犯行为。他终于打破了我的宁静，搅乱了我的精神，把我卷入了他的生活，末了我只剩下用颤抖的双手对付伯尼的杰作了。乔治享受到了极大的快乐。我喜欢把柜子做成什么样子的？他想知道。我是不是愿意让他给安上一个最新样式的把手？他下面的车间里有一副多余的，它可以白送给我们。白送？