Chapter 5 4

After ten-thirty, Vic casually walked out of his office in Woolkers Advertising. He really didn't like the coffee in the office and was going to Bentley's coffee shop.He spent his mornings in the office writing ads for DeCoster Egg Farm, which was difficult for him, who had hated eggs as a boy when his mother brutally shoved an egg down his throat four days a week.The best thing he could come up with was: "Eggs are love... love without gaps." Not so good, "Gapless" felt like seeing a deceiving photo with a woman lying on it. An egg with a zipper running across the shell.Of course, this is a very interesting imagination, but where will it lead people?He couldn't figure it out.Should have asked Ted.Looking at the coffee and huckleberry trifle the waitress brought, he remembered that Ted liked eggs.

What frustrates him, of course, is not the egg advertisement, but that he will be away for twelve days.That's the only way, Rogge has convinced him. They just had to go there and pitch like hell. Vic loved long-winded old Roger, good Roger, almost like a brother to himself.Luo Zhi would probably happily sneak into Bentley's coffee shop to drink coffee with him, and his ears were full of calluses.But now, he prefers to be alone. He knew that starting next Monday, the two of them would be together from morning to night for two weeks, struggling every day, and that was long enough, even for black brothers.

His thoughts turned to the Vitality Valley fiasco c he let his thoughts flow freely, he knew that sometimes no stressful, even lazy review of bad situations, at least for him, could lead to new perspectives, new perspectives angle. What happened sucks, Vitality Valley food has been taken off the market.Terrible, but not terrible.It's not like canned mushrooms, nobody gets sick or dies from them.Today's customers have realized that a company occasionally makes a five.Just think of the complimentary glasses at McDonald's two or three years ago—people found out that the painting on the glass contained excessive levels of lead, and those glasses were quickly taken back, and the promotion was bogged down.

The glass incident was certainly bad for McDonald's, but no one sued Ronald.McDonald's deliberately poisoned young voters.Likewise, no one is going to sue Professor Sharp Cereals these days (although comedians Bob Hope and Steve Martin have started wryly, and Johnny Carlson was having a blast one night in his opening credits to tonight's show Drenched in a whole monologue about it).Apparently, the image of the Sharp Cereal Professor is done.It is also obvious that the famous actor who played the professor has also gone mad in the face of the oncoming series of events. I can think of worse.After the first shock wave subsided a little, long-distance calls between Portland and Cleveland stopped ringing many times a day, Rogue had said.

What?Vic asked. "I think," said Roger deadpan, "we could go for the easy creamy soup business." "Would you like more coffee, sir?" Vic glanced at the waitress, he just said without thinking; "No." He nodded again, "Add half a glass." She poured half a glass and left.Vic stirred casually and didn't drink. In a short period of time, there was a national health scare. But then several doctors either appeared on TV or submitted medical papers, pointing out that the coloring agent of Vitality Valley cereal products is harmless. It's happened before, when the crew on a commercial flight were scared to death by a weird orange-peel-like skin discoloration, which turned out to be because they rubbed off the lifejackets while showing passengers how to use them before takeoff. the orange dye on the lifejackets.A few years earlier, a coloring agent in frankfurters also produced in vivo effects similar to Vitality Valley products.

Lawyers for Mr. Sharp Sr. have filed a multimillion-dollar lawsuit against the dye makers that looks set to drag on for at least three years and will only end up being settled out of court.Anyway, the lawsuit has led to a forum where it has become clear to the public that that mistake -- that one that was completely temporary, that one that was completely innocuous -- was not made by Sharp. However, on the New York Stock Exchange's quotation board, Sharp's stock fell rapidly.Since then, it has risen less than half of its decline.The listing price of the cereal itself followed suit with a sudden drop, but it managed to recover the ground lost by Vitality Valley's treacherous red face.In fact, Sharp's whole grain meals are selling better than ever.

So, there's nothing wrong here, is there? No, very wrong. The Sharp Cereal Professor is just wrong.The poor fellow could never turn over again.The panic followed by ridicule, the professor, his solemn appearance, the environment of the classroom, has been really laughed to death. George Carlin said that famous nightclub line: "Yes, it's a crazy world, a crazy world." Carlin bowed his head to the microphone for a moment, mused, then looked up again, "The Reagans doing shit campaigning on tv, no? russia got ahead of us in the arms race, the russians made tons of missiles, no? so jimmy was doing his speech on tv, saying 'my My fellow Americans, when the Russians overtake us in the arms race, it will be the day when America's youth will shine'."

The audience laughed. "So Ronnie called Jimmy and asked, Mr. President, what did Amy have for breakfast?" The audience laughed wildly, Carlin paused for a moment, and the well-known famous line came from the microphone in a very soft voice: "No—there's nothing wrong here." The audience screamed wildly and burst into applause.Carlin shook his head in frustration: "Fang Hong, my God, wow!" These are all problems.George Carlin was the problem, Bob Hope was the problem, Johnny Carlson was the problem, Steve Martin was the problem.All-American playful wits are a problem.

Well, think about it: Sharp stock was down nine points and only up four and a quarter points, and the stockholders were going to rant about somebody's head.Think about it, whose head are you going to aim at?Who came up with the nifty idea of ​​the Sharp Cereal Professor in the first place?Is it best to find them?No one cares about the fact that Professor Sharp's Cereal came out four years before the Redberry Vitality debacle, and no one is going to ask how Professor Sharp, his fellow Sharp Cookie Gunners, and George and Gracie moved On the screen, people are flat but Sharp's stock is four and a quarter points lower than it used to be.

None of this matters, what matters are the facts, just the unanimous comment in the industry that that Woolkers ad has lost the Sharp bill--that alone might send the stock up a point and a half, or maybe even two. Then a new advertising campaign starts, which investors will take as a sign that past tragedies are forever in the company's past, and the stock will move up another point. Of course, Vic thought, stirring the sugar and coffee mate in his coffee, this is of course only speculation, and even if it turned out to be true, both he and Roger believed it would be very difficult for Sharp if some And Rogge knows Sharp Corporation better, and understands that an advertising campaign is launched too hastily in the highly competitive cereal market, so the consequences of short-term profitability may be more than just disorder.

Suddenly, that new perspective, a new perspective, jumped into his mind.It came suddenly and uninvited, the coffee he brought to his mouth stopped abruptly halfway, and his pupils dilated. In his mind he saw two people—it might have been him and Roger, or it might have been old Sharp and the elderly "kid"—filling a grave, their shovels fluttering, the night wind howling, a The lantern flickered on and off.Some church associates were behind, giving them occasional furtive glances.It was a burial in the dark, a stealthy operation in the dark, and they were secretly burying Professor Sharp Cereals.This is wrong. "Wrong." He murmured. Of course wrong. Because they buried him in the dark of night, and he never said what he should have said, "I'm so sorry." He quickly took out a Bentel pen from his coat pocket, took a napkin from the small cup in front of him, and wrote rustlingly: "Professor Sharp Cereals should apologize." He looked at it, the letters growing larger and blurring as the ink soaked into the napkin, and under the first line he wrote: "A decent funeral." Here it is: "A daytime funeral." He's not yet sure what that means: it's less of a feeling and more of a metaphor.But that's how he comes up with his best ideas.There's something here, and he's sure to have it. Cujo lay on the garage floor, a little downcast.It's hot in here, but it's worse outside...the sun is very strong outside.It had never been so hot, in fact, it had never noticed that the sun was so harsh. But it's noticing now.Cujo's head ached, his muscles ached, and his eyes ached from the hot sun.It was hot and the snout still hurt where it was cut. It hurts and it starts to fester. The man is out. Not long after he left, the boy and the woman went out too, leaving him alone. The boy put a lot of food outside for Cujo, and Cujo ate very little, and instead of making him feel better, he felt worse, and he didn't touch the rest. There was a rumble, and then a truck pulled up the driveway.Cujo stood up and ran to the barn door, which he already knew was a stranger.It knew the sound of the man's truck, and it knew the sound of the family sedan. It stood in the doorway with its head out, and the sunlight outside stung its eyes.The truck reversed in the driveway and stopped.Two men got out of the cab and went around to the back.One of them pulled up the sliding rear door, and the creaking noise irritated Cujo's ears, and he whined and ran back into the cozy darkness. The trucks are from Portland Machine Company in Maine.Three hours earlier Charity Campbell had entered the main office of the Portland Machine Company on Ridgeton Avenue with her stunned son. She filled out a personal check and purchased a brand new Jorgen chain hoist—the wholesale price was $1,241.71 including tax.Before going to Portland Machine, she went to the State Liquor Store on Congress Avenue, where she filled out her lottery win claim form.The office clerk insisted that Brett couldn't go in, and the little guy stood outside on the sidewalk waiting for her with his hands in his trouser pockets. The clerk told Charity that she would get a check from the Lottery Commission in the mail.She asked how long, and the clerk said no more than two weeks.About eight hundred dollars would have to be siphoned out of this money in taxes before it could be cashed out, the final exact amount to be determined by her declared annual income for Joe. Charity was not at all offended that the tax money would be withdrawn before the lottery ticket was cashed out.The clerk took Shaluti's lottery ticket and checked it with a list of his. Until now, Charity still can't believe what happened to her. Finally, the clerk nodded, congratulated her, and even called the manager of the office out to meet her.These are not important, what is important is that she can finally breathe again.The lottery ticket flowed back to the lottery committee, and she no longer needed to look after it. Her check would be mailed to her—wonderful, miraculous, God! Charity felt a sharp pain as she watched the lottery ticket, which was curled up and softened in her restless breathing, be pasted on the form she had just filled out and taken away.Lady Luck had singled her out, for the first time in her life, maybe for the only time.The heavy Muslim pendant of daily life shook for a while, and she saw the beautiful and wonderful world outside. She was a practical woman, and in her heart she knew that she not only hated her husband a little, and was a little afraid of him, but that she would grow old with him and he would die, leaving her and his debts, and— — which even in the depths of her heart she could not be sure of — and the son he had spoiled. If her name was drawn in the biannual supersweepstakes, or if she could win the five thousand dollars ten times, she would happily rip off the bland Muslim pendant and pull Bright's hand, take him out of Campbell's garage on No. 3 Town Road, out of this Fort Rock, Maine repair shop that specializes in foreign cars, and she will take little Brett to his sister in Connecticut and ask What was the price of a small apartment she had at Stura in Ford. But the pendant only moved, and that was all, Lady Luck appeared before her only for a brief moment, like a fairy dancing brightly under a mushroom in the twilight of morning dew... Once there, it's gone forever. So she felt a sting when the lottery ticket disappeared from view, and even thought it would keep her from sleeping.She knew that for the rest of her life, she would buy a lottery ticket every week, but never get the chance to win more than two dollars in a single draw. It's okay, even if you're smart, you don't count the teeth on a gift horse.She wrote a check at the Portland Machine Company and reminded herself to re-deposit some of her savings when she passed the bank on her way home so that there would be no big jumps in the account.For fifteen years, she and Joe had about four thousand dollars in their savings bills, which was just three-quarters of their high debt, not counting installments.Originally, she had no reason not to include the installment payment, but she was anxious and didn't include it.Except when paying in installments, she couldn't always think about that account head-on.They could now take a small bite out of their savings, deposit it back when the Lottery Commission check came in, and lose only two months' interest. The guy from Portland Machine, Lewis Gerashe, said he could have the chain delivered that afternoon, and he did. Joe Magruder and Ronnie Dube hoisted the chain on the air-compressed stage loader behind the truck, and the loader sagged downward with a whoosh as the truck pulled into the driveway. "A big order from old Joe Campbell," said Ronnie. Magruder nodded: "Moving into that barn, his wife said this is his garage. Hold on tight, Ronnie, it's a heavy guy." The two took out the carrying hooks, and while chatting, they moved the things into the barn. "Wait for a while," Ronnie said, "I can't see the way. Let's get used to the dark for a while before we go in. Don't hit the deflector." They lowered the chain hoist heavily, and in the harsh afternoon sun, Joe was almost blind. He could only vaguely see the outlines inside-a small car parked on the jack, a workbench, and a few more in the gloom. A plank leads to a small attic. "This thing should—" Ronnie bent over, and stopped moving suddenly. In the darkness, a low howl came from in front of the jacked-up cart.Ronnie suddenly felt sticky sweat, and the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. "Dreadful cry, do you hear it?" Magruder said softly.Ronnie could see a little better now, and Joe's eyes widened in terror. "I heard." The sound was very low, like the idling sound of a powerful external engine.Ronnie knew that only a big dog could make that sound.When a big dog barks like this, it usually doesn't just bark casually without doing anything.He didn't see the Beware of Dogs sign when he came in, but often these rednecks just don't bother to put up such a sign.There was only one thing on his mind now—to God, the dog that made that noise had better be on a leash. "Joe, have you ever been here?" "Come here once, it's a St. Bernard dog, the size of a fucking house, and he didn't bark before," Joe gasped, and Ronnie heard something choke in his throat, "Oh , my God, look there, Ronnie." Ronnie's eyes began to adjust, and a ghostly supernatural being gradually appeared in the field of vision. He knew you could never let a vicious dog see that you were afraid - he could smell your feelings from you - but he couldn't help himself.That dog, it's just a demon!It was standing deep in the barn, next to the propped up car, and it must have been a St. Bernard dog, no doubt about that thick coat, the tawny color you could see even in the dark. Mao, and those broad shoulders.Its head was bowed, and its eyes stared at them with a long, dark gleam of hatred. No chains. "Get out slowly," said Joe, "for God's sake, don't run." They started to back off and the dog started to move forward slowly, a stiff gait that was hardly a gait at all, Ronnie thought, a ghost stalking.This dog isn't fucking lounging, its machinery is on and it's about to pounce.Its head was lowered, its low howling tone did not fluctuate, and with every step they took back, it took a step forward. Joe Magruder's most terrifying moment had come—they walked through the blinding sunlight again.The sun dazzled him and made him see nothing.He could no longer see the dog, and if it came at him now— Behind him, he bumped into the side of the car, which nearly snapped his nerves.He unscrewed the cab door. On the other side, Ronnie Dube is doing the same.He was looking for the passenger door, and for one interminable moment his hand fumbled awkwardly for the latch... .He grabbed it.He can still hear that muffled growl like an Evan Lutheran 80 high powered motor...the door won't open...he's waiting for the dog to come and tear a big chunk off his ass...his thumb Hit the button and the door opens.He staggered into the cab, panting heavily. In the rearview mirror outside the window, he saw the dog standing motionless by the barn door.He glanced at Joe, who was grinning at him in embarrassment at the steering wheel, and he was grinning at him tremblingly. "Just a dog," said Ronnie. "Yes, barking is worse than biting." "No, let's go back and fiddle with that chain crane again." "Hold." "And get on that horse inside." They laughed together.Ronnie handed him a cigarette. "How about we go?" "I'll listen to you," said Joe, and started the car. On the way back to Portland, Ronnie muttered, "That dog has gone bad." Joe was driving with one arm out the window.He glanced at Ronnie. "I'm terrified, that's all I have to admit. If it was a puppy barking at me like that, I'd give it a kick in the ass right away, as long as no one was in the house. I mean Well, if anyone doesn't hang up a biting dog, their dog should. That thing, you see? I bet that hunched monster weighs two hundred pounds." "I should probably call Joe Campbell," Ronnie said. "Tell him what happened. Maybe he'll have his arm bitten off, don't you?" "How's Joe Campbell treating you lately?" asked Joe Marrowder, grinning. Ronnie thought for a while, then nodded: "He doesn't punch me like you do, but it's the truth." "The last punch I got was from your wife, and it wasn't bad at all." "Down, little fairy?" They all laughed. No one called Camber.By the time I got back to Portland Machine, it was close to closing time and time to fiddle around.It took them fifteen minutes to fill out the travel registration form.Velasco came out and asked if Campbell was picking up the car at the shop, and Ronnie Dube said of course.With such a large order and wholesale price, Belasco left with a tingle.Joe Magruder wished Ronnie a happy weekend and a Fucking National Day.Ronnie said he was going to be happy, and be happy until Saturday night.They counted their cards and left. Nobody gave Cujo a second thought.Until one day they saw it again in the paper. All afternoon before the long weekend, Vic and Roger worked out the details of their trip.Rogge pays great attention to details, even a little paranoid.He has booked a plane ticket and room through an agency, and the plane is scheduled to leave Portland Airport at 7:10 a.m. Monday.Vick said that he drove the "Puma" to pick up Roger at 5:30 in the morning. Although he thought it was too early, he understood Roger's temper. They roughly nailed down the journey.Vic was ready to take the idea he'd conjured up over coffee with him on the road, now that napkin was tucked securely in his tracksuit pocket.Once on the road, Rogge was easy to talk to. Vic wanted to leave early and check his afternoon mail before leaving.Their secretary, Lisa, was gone, heading off to her big weekend.Damn it, whether it's a holiday or a weekend, you can't expect a secretary to stay after five o'clock.To Wick, it was just another sign of the decadence of Western civilization.Right now, pretty young Lisa might be joining the torrent of interstate traffic, heading south to Old Orchard, or the Hamptons, in her tight jeans and almost nothing tank top.Get off the dance floor, Disco Lisa.Vic thought, grinning. There was an unopened letter on the blotter on the desk. Picking it up curiously, the first thing he noticed was the line of personal letters under the address, and then he noticed that his name was handwritten all over it in block capital letters. He picked up the letter and flipped it in his hand, and there was a faint ripple in his relaxed and happy mood before leaving get off work.In the back of his mind, there was a sudden, strong desire that he didn't even realize - to tear the letter into two pieces, four pieces, eight pieces, and throw them in the wastebasket. Still, he opened the letter and took out a sheet of paper. It's still handwritten. The simple letter -- six sentences -- hit him like a bullet straight through the heart. Instead of sitting in a chair, he collapsed there.A sound came from him, a grunt, the sound of a man who was completely lifeless.For quite a long time, what was rolling in his mind was just a kind of white noise, which he didn't understand and couldn't understand.If Roger had come in at this moment, he would have thought Vic had a heart attack.In a sense, he was indeed having a heart attack.His face was as white as paper, his mouth was parted, and blue half-moons appeared under his eye sockets. He read the text message again. Read it again. The first thing he sees is the first question: "That birthmark on her pubic hair, What does it look like to you? " It was a mistake, he thought bewildered.Except for me, no one will know about that thing... By the way, her mother, and her father. And then the sting, and for the first time he felt jealous: even her bikini covered it up... her tiny bikini... He buried one hand in his hair, put the letter down again, and buried his hands deep in the ground.That feeling of being out of breath after a blow was still in his chest, that feeling that his heart was pumping not blood but air.He was terrified.Stinging and confusing, but what weighed heavily on his heart was fear. The letter glared at him and screamed: "I like to play shit out of her." His eyes were fixed on the line, and he couldn't leave it no matter what. He can hear the planes buzzing in the sky outside, leaving the airport, flying into the sky, flying out, heading in a direction he doesn't know, and in his head, I like to fuck her out.Cruel, it's just cruel, yes sir, yes ma'am, it is.It's a slash with a blunt knife, "I like to play shit out of her", what a scene, it's unimaginable, it's like a spray gun full of battery acid, shot at his eyes. He tried to think coherently— (I like) But it can't be— (Play the shit out of her.) imagine. Still in a deep terror, his eyes went back to the last line, and he looked at it over and over again, as if trying to drive that feeling into his head. "Do you have any question?" Yes, suddenly he had all kinds of problems.All he knew was that he didn't want to know an answer. A new thought flew into his brain, what would happen if Roger hadn't come home yet?Often when the lights were still on, old Roger would walk in patting his head.The journey was coming, and he was more likely to come tonight.The thought made Vic panic.At some point, a ridiculous memory flooded back: so many times, he masturbated in the bathroom like a teenager, unable to control himself, yet utterly terrified that everyone would know what he was doing there.If Roger came in, he'd find out that something was wrong, and he didn't want that. He stood up and walked to the window, looking down the building's parking lot from the sixth floor.Roger's bright yellow Honda was gone, and he had gone home. He broke free from his disturbed thoughts and listened quietly. The office of Woolkers Advertisement was very quiet, which was the only characteristic of the business district during off-duty hours. There was no sound of Mr. walking around.He seemed to have to go, he had to— There is a voice. At first he didn't know what it was, but it came suddenly, a wail, the sound of an animal with its feet smashed.The cars in the parking lot doubled, tripled, blurred in his tears. Wouldn't he be crazy?Why the hell is he so terrified? A ridiculous, old saying came to his mind: abandoned by women.He thought, I was abandoned by women! The wailing continued. He tried to hold his throat, but it didn't work.He bent his head and clung to the waist-high iron convector grate under the window until his fingers ached and the metal pieces snapped open. How much time did she cry?He cried the day Ted was born, a cry of relief.He also cried when his father died. The old man died after fighting cruelly with fate for three days after a massive myocardial infarction. He was seventeen years old that year, and those tears, just like now, flowed out painfully, like bleeding.But seventeen-year-olds are more likely to cry. At seventeen, you still have to face the tears and blood in your life from time to time. He stopped wailing, thinking to himself, It's over, and at that moment a low cry seeped out of him, a shrill, quivering voice, "Is this me? My God, it's me." Are you making that sound?" Tears streamed down his cheeks.Another heart-piercing sound, and another.He clutched the iron grille of the convector tightly and burst into tears.