Chapter 49 Chapter 48

He staggered up a long slope, the hot sun steaming his stomach and roasting his head; the interstate glinted slightly in the heat radiation.He had been Donald Merwin Elbert, and now he was irrevocably Trash Bug.He gazed at the fabled city of Sivola. How long has he traveled west?How long has it been since you met that kid?God probably knows, but the garbage bugs don't anyway.Some days.And those nights, oh, he couldn't forget those nights! He stood staggering, his rags swaying; he looked down on Sivola, the city of hope, the city of dreams.His body is out of shape.The unhealed wrist he had cut while climbing over the banister of the stairs in order to escape the burning oil tank, was wrapped in a dirty trump bandage, and it was a big bulging ball.Somehow, all the phalanges on that hand curled up like claws.On the left arm, the burnt tissue from elbow to shoulder was slowly recovering, no longer festering and smelling bad, but new flesh was growing pink and smooth, like the skin of a cheap rag doll.The grinning frenzied face was sunburned, peeled, unkempt, and riddled with scars from when the bike's front wheel had come off its frame.He was wearing a faded blue work shirt, stained with sweat, and a pair of dirty corduroy trousers.His backpack, which was new not long ago, has now become the same style as its owner, a strap is broken, and the garbage bug has a lot of trouble to fasten it, and now the backpack is slanted on the back, like a haunted house. It was as dusty as the shutters inside, and the folds were full of sand.The sneakers on the feet were tied with hemp rope, and the sand-worn ankles were protruding from the socks.

He looked down at the city in the distance, looked up again at the indifferent bronze sky, and turned his gaze to the setting sun, the furnace-like heat surrounding him.He screamed.It was the victor's savage scream, much like Susan Stern's when she cracked Royer Rabbit's skull with the butt of his own shotgun. He began his triumphant dance on the fiery surface of Interstate 15 as the desert wind whipped up sand and swept across the highway.On the other side of the highway, there were two broken cars almost completely buried in the sand, a Lincoln and a T-Bird. The owner sitting behind the safety glass had become a mummified car.Ahead on this side of the garbage bug, there was an upturned minivan buried in the sand except for the wheels and sills.

He is dancing.Feet wrapped in rope-bound, bulging espadrilles, bouncing up and down the highway to a boozy horn dance.The rags on the shirt were flying in the wind, the kettle made a dull metallic sound as it hit the backpack, and the loose ends of the ace bandages fluttered in the hot wind.The pink glossy burnt tissue gleamed slightly, and the veins in his temples thumped like an alarm clock.He'd been in God's frying pan for a week: headed southwest, across the Utah and Arizona end, into Nevada, and he was insane. He danced and sang tedious songs, repeating the same words over and over again.The tune was popular when he was at the Terre Haute School. It was a song composed by the Hedo Society "Tower of Power". The title of the song was "Go to the Nightclub", but the lyrics were made up by himself. He sang:

"Civola, Civola, bump, bump, bump! Civola. Civola, bump, bump, bump!" Every time he sang a "Dian", he followed it with a small jump, until everything in the hot wind swirled before his eyes, and the bright and dazzling sky turned into dusk gray.He collapsed on the road, nearly passed out, his overwhelmed heart beating wildly in his parched chest.With the last of his strength, crying and laughing, he dragged himself over the overturned minivan and lay in its shrinking shadow, shivering and panting in the heat. "Sivola!" he yelled harshly. "Bump, bump, bump!"

He reached out a claw-like hand, groped for the kettle from his shoulder and shook it.The jug was almost empty, but that was all right, he was going to drink every drop and lie there until the sun went down before taking the highway into Sivola, the fabled city.Tonight, he would drink from every spring that gushed.But it must wait until after the fatal sun goes down. God is the greatest arsonist.A long time ago a boy named Donald Merwin Elbert burned spinster Semple's pension check and burned down the Methodist church in Bottanville, if Donald Merwin Elbert If there is anything left of Alberto in this shell, no need to ask, it has been reduced to ashes with the oil tank in Gary, Indiana. More than 9 dozen oil tanks were blown up like a string of huge firecrackers.That day also happened to be July 4th, what a coincidence.As the fire soared into the sky, only Garbage Worm was left. His left arm was scratched and burned, as if there was a fire hidden in his body, a fire that would never be extinguished... at least until his body was burned to black Charcoal never goes out before.

Tonight he will drink the water of Sivola, yes, it must be as sweet as wine. He lifted the jug, poured the last few drops of water down his throat, and slowly flowed into his stomach. After drinking it, he threw the jug into the desert.Sweat dripped from his brow like dew, and he lay there, shivering, savoring the sweetness of those few drops. "Sivola!" he murmured, "Sivola! I'm coming! I'm coming! I'll give everything for you! I'd die for you! Rumble, bump, bump!" When his thirst was relieved a little, he felt sleepy. Just when he was almost falling asleep, a thought flashed through his mind, like the blade of an ice skate:

What if Sivora was just a mirage? "No," he murmured, "no, oh no." Negatives alone cannot dispel the thought.The blade stung him, chasing his drowsiness away.What if he drank the last drop in celebration of a mirage?In his own way he realized his madness.If it was just a mirage, he would no doubt die in the desert, preyed upon by eagles. Finally, he could no longer bear the fear brought about by this terrible thought, suppressed the bouts of dizziness and nausea, stood up staggeringly, and struggled back to the road.Halfway up the hill, he looked uneasily down across the vast plain of yucca and tumbleweed, and his breath caught in his throat and became an exclamation like a sleeve hanging from the point of a nail.

right there! Sivola, the ancient legend, the place many people searched for, was found by the garbage bugs! It is located in the depths of the desert, surrounded by blue mountains, and the misty mist in the distance has put on a blue cloak for it, and tall buildings and streets appear and disappear from time to time.Palm trees...he can see palm trees...and water! "Oh, Sivora..." he whispered, stumbling back into the shadows of the minivan.He knew it was farther than it seemed.When God's torch exits the sky, he will advance with unprecedented speed.He will reach Sivola, and the first thing he will do when he gets there is to leap into the water at the first fountain he encounters.Then he'll find him, the one who invited him here.It was he who guided him, and in a month's time, regardless of the serious burn on his arm, he crossed the plains and mountains, and finally entered the desert.

He is the man in black, a tough man.He's waiting for the trash bugs in Sivola.The men and horses of that night were his; they left the west with great dignity, and headed toward the rising sun.His were the bloodless death knights who would yell and laugh and stink of sweat and gunpowder; they would scream, but the litterbugs didn't care about the screams; and they would rob and repression, which he was indifferent to; murders, which were even more irrelevant. There will be another fire. For this, he is very concerned. In the dream, the man in black came to him, opened his arms on high, and showed him a country in flames.Cities burst into flames like bombs, and arable land was consumed by flames.Burning oil floated in the rivers of Chicago, Pittsburgh, Detroit, and Birmingham.

In the dream, the man in black told him one thing, one thing that made him serve: I will give you a high position in my artillery, you are exactly what I want. He turned over and lay on his side, quicksand rubbed against his cheeks and eyelids, causing pain.He'd lost hope once, yes, he'd lost hope since the wheels came off his bike.God, Kali Yates' God, seemed stronger than the Man in Black after all.But he still insisted on his beliefs and forged ahead.In the end, just when he was almost buried in the desert, never reaching Sivora where the men in black were waiting for him, it was like a daydream.Sivola appeared, down there, in the distance.

"Sivola!" he whispered, falling asleep. The first dream was with Gary, more than a month ago, after he had burned his arm.Before falling asleep that night, convinced that he was going to die, because no one burned as badly as he did and lived, a phrase kept recurring in his head: live for fire, die for fire; live for fire, live for fire Fire to death. In a small park in the city, he fell to the ground and could no longer move his legs.The left arm was outstretched, far away from the body, like an inanimate object, and the sleeve of the shirt was also burned.The pain was unbelievably severe.He never dreamed that there would be such pain in the world. Before that, he cheered and ran from one set of tanks to the next, installing crude timing devices, each consisting of a steel pipe and a flammable mixture of gasoline separated by a steel plate. Small layers of acid.He put these devices in the drain pipe on the top of the tank, and when the acid flowed over the steel plates and corroded, the gasoline would catch fire, causing the tank to explode.He intended to go west of Gary, near the junction of many roads leading to Chicago or Milwaukee, before the first tank exploded.He wanted to see the whole city destroyed in the fire. But he misjudged the last device, perhaps because the device itself was poorly made, and it exploded when he opened the outflow cap with a pipe wrench.At the moment when the burning gasoline was sprayed out of the steel pipe, the dazzling flame shot up into the sky, and a beam of flames shot up his left arm.He seemed to be wearing a fire glove, but unfortunately this glove could not block the pain, it waved and trembled in the air, like a huge torch.The pain is horrendous, no less than putting your arm over the crater of an erupting volcano. He screamed and sprinted around the top of the tank, slamming down the waist-high railing like a pinball.Had there been no railing, he would have tumbled down like a torch thrown into a well.An accident saved his life when he crossed his feet and fell to the ground, pinning his body on his left arm and extinguishing the fire. He got up, still half mad with pain.Later, he thought that it was pure luck or the wish of the man in black that he escaped from the danger of being buried in the sea of ​​fire.Most of the gas hadn't been sprayed on him, so he was grateful.But his gratitude came later, when all he could do was cry, and throw forward and backward with his arms, smoking and charred and cracked. He vaguely remembered that by the time it got dark, he had installed a dozen timing devices.They can explode anytime.Death is beautiful, and so is the escape from that excruciating pain, but burning to death in fire is horrific. He didn't know how he climbed down from the oil tank, how he waved his scorched left arm, scurrying around in that place of death like a headless chicken, and how he staggered away in the end. It was evening when he reached a small park in the center of town.He sat on the grass between two roller skating rinks, trying to figure out what to do about the burn.Butter it, Donald Merwin Elbert's mother must have said.But that was for burns from water or oil splashed from a pan, and he couldn't imagine smearing butter on the charred area from elbow to shoulder, or even touching it. Suicide, yes, he would rather let himself out of pain completely, like an old dog. Suddenly, there was a huge explosion sound from the east of the town, like fabric being torn in half swiftly.In the darkening indigo sky at dusk, a column of fire rose into the sky.The bright light blinded him, and he blinked desperately until he burst into tears. Despite the excruciating pain, fire filled him with joy...even, excitement, contentment.Fire is the best medicine, not even the morphine he finds the next day (as a privileged prisoner, he knew morphine, "The King" from his work in the infirmary, the library, and the car yard) powder).He didn't connect the pain in front of him with the pillar of fire. He only knew that fire was good, bright, something he needed in the past and always needed in the future.Fire, wonderful! Moments later a second oil tank exploded.Even from three miles away, he could feel the heat spreading in the air.Another oil tank exploded, and another.After a short pause, six more oil tanks exploded with a sharp fabric tear.It looked so bright there now, and he was grinning, his eyes were full of yellow flames, and he had forgotten about his broken arm, his thoughts of suicide. After more than two hours, all the oil tanks were blown up, and then night came, but that night was not dark, it was orange, with the heat of the fire.The entire eastern horizon was flying with flames, which reminded him of a famous comic book adapted by H. G. Weil when he was a child. Now, many years have passed, the child with the comic book has disappeared, but the garbage bug is still there. Now, Trashworm has a strange, terrible secret: the deaths of the Martihans. Time to leave the park, the temperature has risen by 10 degrees.He should go west, as he did at Boultanwell, to get ahead of the flames and race against the spreading destruction.But he couldn't enter the competitive state at all at this time, so he had to sleep on the grass, the firelight dancing on his face, which was the face of a tired, abused child. In the dream, the Man in Black arrives, his face invisible in his hooded robe...but Garbage Worm still thinks he's seen this man before.At Pottenvale, when the people who sat lolling in the candy shops and brewhouses whistled at him, it seemed that this man was among them, silently thinking.He wears a sponge glove on his right hand, soaked like a dead fish, with nails as white as ivory, while he does his scrub shop duties (soap overhead lights, wash rags, scrub sill panels, ask sir if you want to wax?) At that time, he seemed to have seen this face too, showing a ferocious and ferocious face that was madly excited.When the sheriff sent him to Terre Haute, in the room where they gave him electrotherapy, he was the bared psych assistant standing over his head with his hands on the controls (I'll shock you Brain, boy, on your way to helping you go from Donald Merwin Elbert to trash bug, would you like some hot wax?), ready to put 1,000 volts into his brain.He knew the man in black well: his face you could never quite see, his hand that dealt all the spades from the dead deck, his eyes beyond fire, his grin beyond all the graves of the world. "I will do what you say," he said gratefully in his dream, "and I will die for you!" The man in black reached into the robe, turning it into the shape of a black kite.They stand on high, and below them lies America in flames. I will give you a senior position in my artillery, you are exactly what I want. Then he saw a mass of more than 10,000 men, men and women in rags, driving east, across the desert, into the mountains; unloading trucks, jeeps, tents, and tanks; Hanging was a black gemstone, and in the center of some of the stones was set a red spot shaped like an eye, or like a key.He saw himself, driving a car in the vanguard, with the spare wheel on top of the huge fuel tank, and he knew the truck was full of napalm... and in the line behind him were pressure bombs, special Trucks with mines and plastic bombs; Molotov cocktails and heat-seeking missiles; grenades, machine guns and rocket launchers.The dance of death is about to begin, the smoke is like the strings of violins and guitars, and the stench of brimstone and smokeless gunpowder fills the air. The man in black raised his arm again, and when he lowered it all went cold, the fire died down, and even the ashes turned cold.For a moment he was Donald Merwin Elbert again, small, frightened, befuddled.For just that moment, he felt like a pawn in the men in black's gigantic chess set, that he felt cheated. At this moment, he saw the face of the man in black not completely covered. At the position of the eyes, there were two dark red coal balls burning in the pit, and the illuminated nose was narrow and narrow, like a blade. "I will do your bidding," Trashworm said gratefully in his dream. "I would die for you! My soul is dedicated to you!" "I will send you to set the fire," said the man in black solemnly. "You must go to my city, and everything there must be cleared." "Where? Where?" Expected, he asked with anxious pain. "West," said the man in black, his voice fading away, "West, beyond the mountains." Then he awoke, it was still night, and still bright, the fire was closer, and it was suffocatingly hot.Houses are exploding.The stars were obscured by a thick cloud of oily smoke and could not be seen.A heavy smoke and rain kicked off, and the roller skating rink was stained with black. At this point he regained his resolve, for he found that he could still walk.He limped west, occasionally seeing some of the others leaving Gary looking back at the fire as they went.Fool, Trashworm thought almost tenderly.You will burn, and in due time you will burn.No one paid him any attention, to them the litterbug was just another survivor.They disappear in smoke.Sometime after dawn, Litterbug limped across the Illinois line, with Chicago to his north and Joliet to his southwest, flames disappearing behind thick smoke.It was the dawn of July 2. He had forgotten the dream of burning Chicago to the ground, of burning more oil tanks, of liquefied gas trucks hidden in railroad sidings, of burning down houses.He has no interest in Wendy City.That afternoon he sneaked into Dr. Heitz's office in Chicago and stole a box of morphine injections.The morphine relieved the pain a little, but had a more important auxiliary effect: it made him less concerned about the actual pain. He also took a large bottle of petroleum jelly from the pharmacy that night and slathered it on the burnt arm.He was extremely thirsty and seemed to be constantly wanting water.Visions of the man in black flitted in and out of his head like blowflies.At dusk he broke down, already beginning to think that the city the man in black had pointed out to him must be Sivola, the city of hope. That night, the man in black came to his dream again, and confirmed his conjecture with a mocking giggle. The cold of the desert brought the Garbage Worm back from its chaotic memory.In the desert it is always ice or fire, there is no in-between. After moaning for a moment, he stood up and wrapped himself up as tightly as possible.Overhead the stars twinkled so close you could almost touch them, bathing the desert with their enchanting light. He rubbed the smooth and tender skin on his arm, and returned to the road with all the pain in his body.Now, these pains are nothing to him.He paused for a moment, looking down at the city of his night dream (it was full of twinkling points of light, like camp lights).He starts to move forward. A few hours later, when dawn began to paint the sky with light, he looked at Sivora not much closer than when he first climbed up to look down.He drank all the water stupidly, not realizing that the actual distance was much farther than what he saw at the time.Due to his dehydration, he dared not walk very far after sunrise.He would have to stop again before the sun could show its full power. An hour after dawn, he found a Mercedes-Benz outside the road, the door on the right was buried in the sand, he opened the door on the left, and dragged out two wrinkled monkey-like owners—wearing Old lady with many jeweled bracelets and old man with dramatic white hair.Grumbling and complaining, the litterbug took the key from the ignition and turned it to open the trunk.Their suitcases were unlocked.He hung many clothes on the window of the Mercedes-Benz and pressed them down with stones.Now he has a cool, dark den. He crawled in and fell asleep.A few miles to the west, the city of Las Vegas shimmers in the summer sun. He can't drive, they didn't teach him in prison, but he can ride a bicycle. On the Fourth of July, the day Larry Underwood found Rita Blackmore dead in her sleep from an overdose, the garbage bugs got their hands on a ten-speed.At first, he rode very slowly because his left arm was not working.He fell twice on the first day, one of which hit the burn, causing a burst of pain.The Vaseline hadn't helped, and the burn had festered and smelled bad.More than once he suspected that he had gangrene, and he refused to allow himself to think about it.He started using an antiseptic cream mixed with petroleum jelly, not sure if it worked, but it certainly didn't do any harm.The two things mixed together and it became a cloudy slime that looked like semen. Gradually, he was able to ride a bicycle with one hand holding on to the handlebars, and he rode faster.The pavement was flat, and he was able to maintain dizzying speed most of the time.Overcoming the pain of burns and the mild dizziness from the morphine, he struggled to maintain his balance.He drank gallons of water and ate surprisingly large meals. He pondered the words of the man in black: I will give you a high position in my artillery, you are exactly the man I want.How sweet these words are!Has anyone really needed him before?The phrase played in his head over and over as he rode his bike under the hot Midwestern sun.He panted and hummed the little tune called "Go to the Nightclub."He sings the lyrics as he pleases (Sivola! Boom, Boom!), but at this point he's not crazy anymore, he's just going. On July 8, the day Nick Andrews and Tom Curran saw bison grazing in Comanche County, Kansas, litter bugs crossed the Mississippi River in the holy city of Davenport, across Rocky Island, Bay Tendorf and Maureen, came to Iowa. On the 14th, Larry Underwood woke up near a tall white house in western New Hampshire as the litter bugs moved through Council Bluffs in northern Missouri and into Nebraska.His left arm regained some function, and his leg muscles strengthened, and he hurried on, faster, faster. On the west side of Missouri, Garbage Bug wondered for the first time that perhaps God himself was in control of his destiny.Something was wrong with Nebraska, something seemed scary, and it frightened him.Iowa seems to be doing the same...but no.Every night before, the man in black came to him in his dream, but when he entered Nebraska, the man in black did not come again. An old woman came to his dream instead of the man in black.In these dreams he found himself sprawled in a cornfield, paralyzed with fright.It was a bright morning, and he could hear flocks of crows cawing.In front is a wide cornfield and sword-like corn leaves.He didn't want to look but he couldn't stop himself, so he finally pushed aside the leaves with trembling hands and looked inside.He saw an old house in the middle of a clearing.There was an old tree with a tire hanging from a branch.An old black lady was sitting on the porch, playing the guitar and singing some old hymns.The hymns sung in each dream are different, and most of them Litterman has heard, because he once knew an old lady, the mother of a boy named Donald Merwin Elbert, who was doing housework. Used to sing many of the same songs. It's a nightmare, and not just because it ends horribly.At the beginning, you may say that there is nothing frightening in the whole dream.corn?blue sky?old woman?Shaky tires?What's so scary about these things?The old woman in the dream didn't throw stones or laugh at him, and the old woman wasn't one of those old women who sang "On That Great Morning" and "Goodbye, dear God, bye."It was the Kali Yates of the world who threw the stones. But long before the dream was over he was paralyzed with fright, as if what he had glimpsed was not an old woman at all, but some secret, some almost invisible light that seemed ready to explode around her, and Compared to this fiery glare, Gary's burning oil can was nothing more than a lot of candles in the wind—a glare that would have scorched his eyes.All he could think was: Oh, please get me out of her, I don't want anything to do with her, please, oh, please get me out of Nebraska. At this time, no matter what piece she was playing, there was always a harsh pause.She looked to the right at the clearing where he was peeping at her through the little cracks in the foliage.Her face was old and lined, and her hair was thin enough to show a brown skull, but her eyes were as bright as diamonds, full of a light that frightened him. In an old, hoarse but resonant voice she called out, "Weasel in the cornfield!" and he felt himself change, and looked down to see that he had become a weasel, a furry, black-brown furtive It is a ghostly creature with a long and pointed nose, its eyes degenerate into two bright dots, and its fingers become claws.He was a weasel, a timid weasel that preyed on weak animals. He began to yell, often waking himself up, sweating profusely, dumbstruck with terror.He hurriedly touched his body with his hands to confirm that his human figure was still there.Finally he held his head tightly to make sure it was still a human head, not something long, smooth and streamlined, not a hairy, bullet-shaped head. In Nebraska, he covered 400 miles in three days and was so terrified that he wanted to fly.He came to Colorado, near the town of Jules, and the dream began to fade. (Mama Abagil woke up on July 15th - a little later than the Litterworm had crossed north of Hemingford - shivering, terrified and pitiful, not knowing whom or why. She thinks she may have been dreaming about her grandson Anders, who died unconscious in a shooting at the age of 6.) On July 18, a few miles southwest of Sterling, Colorado, from Brash, he met the kid. Litterbugs wake up when night falls.Despite the clothes hanging from the windows, the Mercedes was scorching hot.His throat was like a dry well, covered with sandpaper, and his temples were pounding.He stuck out his tongue and tapped it with his fingers like a dry twig.He sat up, and as soon as he put his hands on the steering wheel of the Mercedes-Benz, he shrank back from the heat.He put on his shirt and turned the doorknob to figure it out.He thought he could get out, but he overestimated his strength, ignoring how long he had been dehydrated on this August night: his legs lost strength, and he collapsed on the same hot road .He moaned, and like a crippled reptile, he slid into the shadow of the Mercedes.He sat there with his arms and head between his raised knees, panting.He stared sickly at the two corpses being dragged out of the car: the old woman with bracelets on her withered arms, the old man's dramatic white hair matted over his parched, monkey-like face. He had to be in Sivola before the sun rose tomorrow morning.If not, he'll die... while his goal is in sight!Not even the Men in Black could be crueler than this, certainly not! "I would die for you," muttered Trashworm, As the sun went down, he got up and started walking towards the tall buildings, the minaret, and the avenue of Sivola, where the lights had been relit. As the heat of the day melted into the cold of the desert night, he found himself able to walk better, plodding along Interstate 15 in espadrilles tied with string.He walked slowly, his head drooping like a withered sunflower on his chest, so he couldn't see the words written on it when he passed the fluorescent green road sign: Las Vegas 30. He was thinking of the kid who was supposed to be with him now, driving into Sivola to the echo of the coupe recorder.But the kid seemed to be a useless thing, and the garbage bug walked into the wilderness alone. As he lifted his foot he felt he was on the paved road. "Sivora!" he called, "Bump, bump!" In the middle of the night, he collapsed on the side of the road and dozed uncomfortably.Now that city is closer. He will succeed. He is sure that he will succeed. Before seeing the kid, he had heard his voice long ago.It was a low, thunderous rumble of a recorder from the east.The sound came from the direction of Yuma, Colorado, all the way to Highway 34.His first instinct was to hide, as he had in Gary when he saw a few survivors.But this time, for some reason, he stopped in place and did not move. He just straddled the bicycle with his legs apart and looked back anxiously. The roar grew louder and the sun reflected something chrome and bright orange (is that fire?). The motorist saw him, backfired several times like a burst of machine gun fire, shifted into low gear, and the Goodyear tires almost turned into hot pieces and peeled off on the highway.Then the car came up to him, engine on, panting like a dying animal, tamed or not, and the driver stepped out.But at first the litter bug's eyes were just on the car.He is familiar with cars and likes cars, although he has never had a driver's license.It's a beautiful car, someone must have worked on it for years and thousands of dollars, it's the kind of car you usually only see at race shows, it's a beloved piece. It is a Ford two-door car produced in 1932.Its owner didn't skimp on money and didn't settle for the usual innovation of a coupe, he kept improving it and turned it into a parody of all American cars, a striking sci-fi car with bodywork painted by hand Billowing flame shape.The chrome headpipes run almost the length of the car and reflect the sunlight strongly.The fairing is a cabochon; the rear tires are huge Goodyear tires, and the wheel wells are cut high and deep to match them.The grotesque heat pipe-like thing sticking out of the hood is an internal combustion engine supercharger; the black thing with red embers flecks sticking out of the roof is a steel shark fin; on each side of the car are written Three characters, tilt back to display the speed.Those three words are: that kid. "Hey, you're so sweet," the driver said slowly, and the Trashworm turned his attention from the flames of paint to the owner of the rolling cannonball. He was about 5 feet 3 inches tall, with curly hair piled high on his head, waxed and gleaming, and the hairstyle added 3 inches of height out of thin air.With all the curls piled on top of the collar, it wasn't just a simple duck ass, it was the embodiment of every duck ass hairstyle in the world influenced by hooligans.He wore a pair of black well-toed boots with laces at the top.The Cuban heels added another 3 inches to the kid, bringing him to a respectable 5ft 9in.The faded jeans were stretched tight on the legs, and I could count the coins in the pockets from the outside.The jeans stretched his tiny hips into a beautiful blue sculpture, and the crotch looked like a buckskin bag stuffed with golf balls.He wore a Western-style silk shirt in an unauthentic burgundy color, with yellow lace and imitation sapphire buttons.The cuff links of the shirt look like polished bone, which Trashworm later discovers is indeed bone.The boy had two sets of chain clasps, one made of a man's molar and the other of a Dauberman's incisor.Although it was very hot, he also wore a black leather motorcycle vest with an eagle printed on the back over his shirt.The waistcoat was zipped up, and the teeth shone like diamonds.From the shoulder straps and belt hung three hare's feet, one white, one brown, and one bright green.The leather waistcoat, more wonderful than the shirt, was heavily oiled and creaked smugly.On the top of the eagle, there are three words embroidered with white silk thread: that boy.被一大堆闪亮的头发和闪亮的摩托车马甲领子包围的脸正盯着垃圾虫，那是一张小小的、苍白的布娃娃脸，噘着两片厚厚的，但是毫无瑕疵的雕塑般的嘴唇，死灰色的眼睛，宽阔光滑的额头，丰满的两颊。 臀部左右一边一把硕大的0．45口径手枪松松地垂在枪套外，两条枪带在扁平的腹部交叉着。 “嗨，小子，你想说什么？”那小子喊。 垃圾虫唯一能想起来说的就是：“我喜欢你的车。” 他答对了，或许这是唯一正确的答案。5分钟后垃圾虫坐在双门小轿车的客座上，小轿车的时速大约达到了95英里。垃圾虫从伊利诺伊东部一直骑过来的自行车渐渐地变成了地平线上的一个小黑点儿。 垃圾虫胆怯地提出，以这个速度行驶，要是路上遇到障碍，那小子可能会看不见（事实上他们已经遇到了几个障碍，那小子只是像障碍滑雪似的绕开，毫不理会固特异轮胎的尖锐抗议）。 “嗨，小子，”那小子说，“我反应快，能及时应付。你信不信吗？” “相信，先生。”垃圾虫虚弱地答道，好像一个人刚刚用棍子捅了蛇洞。 “我喜欢你，小子，”那小子用他古怪低沉的嗓音说。他的布娃娃眼越过桔黄色的萤光方向盘盯着微微闪光的路面。“从后座拿罐啤酒。” 后座里的是可斯啤酒，摸起来热乎乎的。垃圾虫讨厌啤酒，但他拿过来一饮而尽并且赞美说真是好啤酒。 “嗨，小子，”那小子说，“可斯啤酒是唯一的啤酒。我恨不得尿尿都尿可斯，你信不信这快乐的牛皮？” 垃圾虫回答说他的确相信这快乐的牛皮。 “他们叫我那小子。我家在路易斯安那州的什里夫波特。你知道吗？我这辆四脚兽每次参加南方的汽车大展都得奖。你信不信这快乐的牛皮？” 垃圾虫回答说相信，又拿起一罐热乎乎的啤酒。 “人家叫你什么，小子？” “垃圾虫。” “什么？”死布娃娃似的眼睛在垃圾虫的脸上可怕地停了一会儿。“你跟我开玩笑？没人敢跟那小子开玩笑，你最好相信这快乐的牛皮。” “我相信，”垃圾虫认真地说，“但人家确实是那么叫我的。因为我过去常常在垃圾箱和邮筒里放火。我烧掉过森普尔老太太的养老金支票，因为这事我曾经被送进少年感化院。我还烧掉了印第安那州保坦韦尔卫理公会的教堂。” “是吗？”那小子高兴地问，“小子，听起来你疯狂得像只茅坑里的耗子。很好，我喜欢疯狂的人。我自己也是个狂人。垃圾虫，嗯？我喜欢这名字。咱们真是天生的一对，令人讨厌的那小子和令人讨厌的垃圾虫，握手，垃圾虫。” 那小子伸出手，垃圾虫尽可能迅速地握了一下他的手，好让他用两只手把着方向盘。小轿车飞一般拐过一个弯儿，突然发现一辆双轮拖车几乎堵住了整个高速路。垃圾虫用手遮着脸，做好了飞跃这个天外来物的准备，那小子却纹丝不动。这辆双门小轿车像只水臭虫一样，擦着高速路的左侧飞驰而过，被拖车的驾驶室刮掉了一层油漆。 “成功了。”垃圾虫说，这时他发觉自己终于可以不带一丝颤抖地说话了。 “嗨，小子，”那小子的一只布娃娃眼严肃地眨了一下，“别瞎扯，你听着。啤酒怎么样？真他妈的够味，对不对？刚才骑那辆小孩车的滋味不好受吧，这会儿心满意足了，不是吗？” “的确是的。”垃圾虫说，又喝了一大口热可斯。他虽然疯狂，但还不至于疯狂到在那小子开车的时候不赞同他的意见，在这上不着天下不着地的地方。 “好嘛，绕着他妈的灌木丛转，真没意思，”那小子说着，返身越过座位拿了罐啤酒，“我猜咱们的目的地是同一个地方。” “我想是的。”垃圾虫谨慎地说。 “我打算到西部去，”那小子说，“我要到那儿抢占有利地位。你信不信这快乐的牛皮？” "believe." “你梦见过穿着黑色飞行服的人，是吗？” “你指的是神父。” “我说什么，指的就是什么；指的是什么，我就说什么，”那小子断然说，“别瞎扯，你听着，他妈的你这个臭虫，那人穿着黑色飞行服，戴着风镜。像约翰·韦恩的电影《双雄》里的样子。风镜很大，所以你他妈的根本看不见他的脸。真他妈的见鬼，是不是？” “是的。”垃圾虫说，他又喝了一口热乎乎的啤酒，头开始嗡嗡作响。 那小子手扶桔黄色的方向盘，弓起身子开始模仿战斗机大战中的那位飞行员。可以断定，那人曾经在《双雄》中大显身手。当他表演着翻斤斗、俯冲、转动炮筒的动作时，双门汽车吓人地从路的一边冲向另一边。 “依……呀……嗬……啊……咚……听着，他妈的……12点有强盗出动！……把大炮转向他们，他妈的标尺……嗒……嗒嗒嗒！先生，我们把他们搞定了！全都搞定了……好极了！坐下，小伙子们，好极了！” 当他进入这种幻想中的时候，他的脸上毫无表情；当他颠簸着窜到小路上又隆隆地驶回到大路上时，打了蜡的头发没有一丝变形。垃圾虫的心脏在胸膛里猛跳，皮肤上闪着汗水的光泽。他喝光了啤酒，憋不住想撒尿。 “不过他没有恐吓我，”那小子说，好像先前的话题从没中断过，“他妈的没有。他是个冷酷的家伙，但是那小子从前对付过不少冷酷的家伙。我把他们关起来，镇压他们，正像老大说的那样。你信不信这快乐的牛皮？” “当然信。”垃圾虫应道。 “你喜欢老大？” “当然。”垃圾虫答道，其实他根本不晓得那小子说的老大是何许人。 “他妈的你最好喜欢老大。听着，你知道我的计划吗？” “去西部？”垃圾虫冒险地说，看起来还安全。 那小子似乎很不耐烦，“我指的是到了那儿以后。以后。你知道我要干什么？” “不知道。干什么？” “我打算隐蔽一些时候，弄清形势。你喜不喜欢这个快乐的牛皮？” “当然。”垃圾虫说。 “他妈的。别瞎扯，你他妈的听着。我只想搞清楚，搞清楚那个大人物是谁，然后……” 那小子陷入了沉默，在他的桔黄色方向盘上思索着。 “然后怎么样？”垃圾虫犹豫了一下问。 “我要把他摆平，让他摸几回阎王鼻子。再把他流放到他妈的卡迪拉克大牧场上去放羊。你信不信？” “当然信。” “然后由我来接替他，”那小子自信地说，“我要剥光他的衣服，让他待在卡迪拉克大牧场。你跟着我，垃圾虫，管你他妈的叫什么名字。咱们吃香的喝辣的，再不会没有猪肉和豆子，还要吃很多鸡。” 双门小轿车隆隆地驶在高速路上，排气管喷出瑰丽的火焰。垃圾虫坐在客座上，腿上放着热乎乎的啤酒，头晕脑胀。 8月5日将近黎明的时候，垃圾虫进入锡沃拉，人们还把它叫做维加斯。在最后的五英里中，他不知在什么地方把胶底帆布鞋弄丢了，现在，当他走下弯曲的坡道，他的脚步声听起来是这样的：噗啪，噗啪！像拍打漏气的轮胎。 他几乎耗尽了力气，但是当他走在坡道上，看着堆积的几辆破车和一些被野鸟啄食殆尽的死人时，又不禁微微地感叹起来。He succeeded.他已经到了锡沃拉。他遇到而且经受住了考验。 他看到许多下等酒吧间和夜总会，招牌上有的写着“自由空间”，有的写着“兰铃婚礼教堂”以及“60秒婚庆，伴你一生！”。途中，透过一个成人书店的平板玻璃，他看到一本名叫《银色幽灵罗斯－罗伊斯》的书，一个裸体女人倒挂在一根路灯柱上。他还看到两张《拉斯维加斯的太阳》，当报纸被风吹动的时候，他不止一次地瞥见报纸上露出的标题：瘟疫肆虐，华盛顿沉默。他看到一个巨大的广告牌上写着：“尼尔钻石！”“美国旅店，6月15日到8月30日！”。他看到一家似乎只卖结婚和订婚戒指的珠宝店，橱窗上有人胡乱地写着“你活该遭报应，死在拉斯维加斯”。他看到一架翻倒的大钢琴躺在路上，像一匹酣睡的大木马。眼前到处都是这些令人惊奇的东西。 他又往前走，开始看到其他的招牌，火烈鸟，造币厂，沙丘，撒哈拉，玻璃鞋，帝国。但是人在哪儿？水又在哪儿？ 垃圾虫漫无目的地走着，信步离开了坡道。他的头向前低着，下巴抵在胸前，边走边打盹。当他的脚绊在了什么东西上，当他一跤跌倒把鼻子撞出了血，当他抬起头判断自己在什么地方时，他几乎不相信自己的眼睛。鼻子里的血流在破烂的蓝衬衫上，他毫无知觉。他仿佛还在打盹，而这一切只是在做梦。 一座高大的白色建筑伸向沙漠的天空，像一座沙漠的丰碑，像一根针，像一座纪念碑，每一部分都能与斯芬克斯或大金字塔相媲美。它东面的窗户反射着朝阳的光芒，似乎是一种预兆。在这座骨白色沙漠大厦的前面，在通道两侧，有两座巨大的金字塔。天篷上嵌着一个巨大的青铜徽章，上面刻着一个浮雕，是一只怒吼的狮子的头。 再往上看，是几个简洁有力的大字，也用青铜刻着：ＭＧＭ大饭店。 不过吸引住他视线的，是立在停车场和通道之间方形草地上的什么东西。垃圾虫定睛一看，立刻陷入了极度的兴奋。他颤抖着，好一会儿，他只能用流血的手支撑着身体，王牌绷带散开的布头垂在两手之间，两只暗淡的蓝眼睛盯着那喷泉，终于，他发出一声低低的呻吟。 喷泉在喷水。这是一个用石头和象牙建成的华丽建筑，用金子雕镂镶嵌。彩灯环绕着喷嘴，把水变成紫色，桔黄色，红色，绿色；水花落入池中发出连续不断的很响的哗哗声。 “锡沃拉。”他喃喃低语，挣扎着向前。鼻子还在流着血。 他开始蹒跚着走向喷泉。蹒跚变为疾走，疾走变为奔跑，又变为猛跑，直到变为疯狂的冲刺。他结疤的膝盖像活塞一样抬起，放下，几乎抬到了脖子那么高。他的嘴里飞出一句话，长长的一句话，像一面纸旗升上了天空，把高处的人们吸引到了窗前（谁看见了他们？也许是上帝，或者是魔鬼，但肯定不是垃圾虫），当他接近喷泉时，那声音变得更高、更尖、更长： “锡沃拉……” 后面的“啊”音拖得很长很长，是所有在地球上生活过的人都曾听到过的兴奋的声音，直到他用力攀上齐胸高的喷泉的边沿，飞身跃入难以置信的凉爽仁慈的水中，这声音才宣告结束。他能感觉到，周身的毛孔如千万只嘴巴一齐张开，像海绵一样吸着水。他尖声大叫。他把脑袋埋在水中喷着鼻息，然后伸出水面，又是打喷嚏又是咳嗽，把血、水和鼻涕一齐溅在喷泉的边上，接着又把头低下去，如牛喝水一般痛饮。 “锡沃拉！锡沃拉！”垃圾虫狂喜地喊着，“我愿为你而死！” 他用狗爬式游了喷泉一周，又喝了一回水，然后爬出喷泉，笨拙地倒在草地上。太值得了，所有的一切都太值得了。突然胃里一阵痉挛，他开始大声呕吐起来。即使是呕吐也让人觉得痛快。 他站起身来，用爪子般的手支撑着身体爬到喷泉边，又开始喝水，这次他的肚子感激地接受了这份礼物。 然后他像一个灌满水的山羊皮，蹒跚着走向夹在两座金字塔中间的雪花石膏台阶，这台阶一直通向神奇的宫殿大门。刚上了一半，又是一阵痉挛，疼得他弯下了腰。等这阵疼痛过去，他东倒西歪地爬上台阶。门是旋转式的，他用尽吃奶的力气让它转动起来，走进了门廊。门廊约有一英里长，铺着地毯，很华美。脚下的地毯是桔红色的，厚厚的，又豪华又舒适。里面有一张登记台，一张邮寄台，一张服务台和几个出纳员窗口，都是空的。在他右边，带装饰的栏杆外面是俱乐部，垃圾虫敬畏地看着密布的自动售货机像许多士兵在列队休息。此外还有轮盘赌和赌桌。靠近大理石栏杆的地方有纸牌赌桌。 “有人吗？”垃圾虫喊，但没人回答。 他感到有点害怕，也许这是个鬼屋，是个怪物出没的地方，但极度的疲倦减轻了他的恐惧。他跌跌撞撞地走下台阶，穿过“幼狮酒吧”，走进赌场。 酒吧里，劳埃德·亨赖德正坐在深深的阴影里，手里端着一杯水，静静地注视着他。 垃圾虫走向铺着绿色厚毛呢的桌子，爬上去，立刻就睡着了。很快，接近半打的人出现在睡着的衣衫褴褛的垃圾虫周围。 “咱们把他怎么办呢？”肯·迪莫特问道。 “让他睡，”劳埃德回答，“弗拉格要他。” “是吗？上帝呀！那么弗拉格究竟在哪儿？”另一个人问。 劳埃德转身看着那个人。这是个秃头的男人，站在那儿足足高出劳埃德一英尺，但尽管如此，在劳埃德的逼视下，他不由地朝后退下了一级台阶。只有劳埃德脖子上戴的不是实心的黑玉，黑玉的中心闪着一个小小的令人不安的红色斑点。 “你那么急着见他，赫克？” “不，”秃头的人说，“嗨，劳埃德，你知道我没有。” “当然，”劳埃德俯视着睡在牌桌上的这个人说，“弗拉格会来的，”他说，“他一直在等着这个人。这个人有点儿特别。” 牌桌上，垃圾虫对此一无所知，他继续沉沉地睡着。 垃圾虫和那小子在科罗拉多的金色汽车旅馆度过了7月18日的夜晚。那小子开了两个相通的房间，但两个房间相通的门是锁着的，那小子用其中一把0．45口径手枪的3发子弹打开了门锁。 那小子抬起靴子，在一层好看的蓝色烟雾中，门颤动着被踢打开了。 “他妈的，”他说，“你住哪间？挑吧，垃圾虫。” 垃圾虫挑了右边的一间。那小子出去了。垃圾虫心里慢慢地琢磨着，他得在真正糟糕的事发生之前，想办法脱身，必须克服缺乏交通工具的不利因素，正在这时，那小子回来了。垃圾虫惊奇地发现他推着一辆运货的手推车，里面装满6罐一捆的可斯啤酒。他的布娃娃眼充血发红，高高的发型开始像破钟表的发条一样散开，打蜡的发丝垂挂在他的脸上、耳朵上，使他看上去像个危险的原始人，捡了一件时空隧道旅行者遗下的皮夹克穿在身上。夹克带上的野兔脚前后摆动着。 “很暖和，”那小子说，“虽然有个裂口，我说的对吗？” “对，完全对。”垃圾虫说。 “来罐啤酒，笨蛋，”那小子说着，扔给他一罐。垃圾虫拉开拉环的时候，噗地一声，泡沫喷了他一脸，那小子双手捧着扁平的肚子古怪地大笑起来。垃圾虫虚弱地笑了笑。他已经下定决心，在今夜晚些时候，他要趁这个小怪物睡熟以后溜走。He has had enough.还有那小子说的关于黑衣牧师的那些话……垃圾虫害怕极了。说出那样的话来，就算是开玩笑，也无异于在教堂的圣坛上拉屎，或者是在暴风雨中仰天企求闪电击中自己呀。 最糟糕的是，他觉得那小子并不是在开玩笑。 垃圾虫无意和这个人一起进山去绕弯子，这个整天喝酒（显然还整晚喝酒）的狂热的矮子，这个说要击败黑衣人并且取代他的位置的狂徒。 与此同时，那小子在两分钟内喝完了两罐啤酒，压扁了罐，满不在乎地扔到房间的一张双人床上。他右手拎着那把开门锁用的0．45口径手枪，左手又拿出一罐可斯。 “他妈的没电，看不成电视了，”他说。他喝得越多，他的南方口音越重，使他的话听起来很生硬：“无所谓，全成了废物才好呢。可是他妈的基督，摔交比赛呢？花花公子频道呢？那可是个好节目，垃圾虫。我是说，他们从来不播什么男人吞吃头发馅饼、大嚼带毛动物之类的玩意儿，你知道我的意思，但是会有几个小姐把腿跷得高高的，顶在他们的下巴颏上，你他妈的知道我在讲什么吗？” “当然。”垃圾虫说。 “他妈的，别瞎扯，你听着。” 那小子盯着那台形同摆设的电视机。“他妈的。”他说着便朝电视开了一枪，显像管“砰”地一声爆裂了，玻璃碴飞到地毯上。垃圾虫抬起胳膊去挡眼睛，结果把啤酒洒到了绿色的地毯上。 “噢看看，你这个笨猪！”那小子喊道，语调蛮横愤怒。忽然，他把枪指向了垃圾虫，又粗又黑的枪膛像海上邮轮的烟囱。垃圾虫觉得他的腹股沟都麻木了，他想他一定是尿湿了裤子，但又不能肯定。 “我不会宽恕你的！”那小子说，“你洒了啤酒，如果是其他牌子的，我也不会这么干，但你洒的是可斯，我恨不能尿尿都尿可斯，你信不信这快乐的吹牛？” “当然。”垃圾虫小声说。 “你认为他们这些天能造出更多的可斯来吗，垃圾虫？你他妈的认为很有可能，是吗？” “不，”垃圾虫小声说，“我猜不会。” “他妈的，你说的对，”他轻轻地举起枪，垃圾虫心想，完了，他的生命走到头了，一定是的。然而那小子却又放下了枪……轻轻地。他的脸上现出十分茫然的表情，垃圾虫想这大概表示他在沉思。“你听着，垃圾虫，你再拿一罐啤酒来，把它咕嘟掉。要是你能把整罐啤酒都咕嘟掉，我就不送你去卡迪拉克大牧场了，你信不信这快乐的牛皮？” “什么是……什么是咕嘟掉？” “耶稣基督，小子，你笨得像块木头！一口气儿喝完整罐，那就是咕嘟掉！你在哪儿长大的？他妈的非洲？小心点，垃圾虫，要是我的枪里有一颗子弹，它准保正中你的右眼。现在我的枪里装满了达姆弹，他妈的，我要把你变成垃圾堆里蟑螂的自助餐。”他扬了扬手中的枪，发红的眼睛紧盯着垃圾虫，上嘴唇沾着一点啤酒沫。 垃圾虫朝硬纸盒走去，挑了一罐啤酒，拍着罐顶。 “喝了它，一滴也别剩。要是你吐出来，你就是一只他妈的要死的鹅。” 垃圾虫举起罐，啤酒汩汩地流出来。他拼命下咽，喉结上下跳动着，像树枝上的猴子。他终于喝完了罐里的啤酒，一松手，啤酒罐掉在了两脚之间。这是一场似乎永远不会结束的战斗，他用他的喉咙打赢了，在一个长长的响着回音的嗝声中，他赢回了自己的生命。那小子转过他的小脑袋，兴奋地哈哈大笑。垃圾虫头重脚轻，虚弱地咧嘴笑笑。顷刻间，他已经不是有一点儿醉，而是酩酊大醉了。 那小子把手枪放进皮套。 “好，不错，垃圾虫，你他妈的还不算太寒碜。” 那小子继续喝酒，汽车旅馆的床上堆满了啤酒罐。垃圾虫把一罐可斯放在膝上，每当那小子似乎在不赞成地看着他时，他就拿起来喝一口。那小子不停地嘟囔着，声音越来越低，停顿也越来越多，这更加重了他的南方口音。他讲他到过的地方，他赢过的比赛。他曾经开着一辆洗衣店的卡车从墨西哥穿过边境运送麻醉药。危险的毒品，他说。所有的麻醉药都是他妈的危险的毒品，他自己从来没碰过，不过小子，在你运了几次大麻后，你就可以用金手纸擦屁股了。最后他开始打盹，小红眼睛闭着的时间越来越长，而后只能勉强睁开一条缝。 “我要抓到他，垃圾虫，”那小子嘟囔着，“我要到那儿去，摸清形势，他妈的不停地拍他的马屁直到我摸清形势，用不了多久，就没有人能指挥我了，他妈的没人。我不做简单的事，我要是做一件事，就一定把它做好，这是我的风格。我不知道他是谁，从哪儿来，但我他妈的要把他……”他打了一个大哈欠，“赶出镇去，把他摆平，送他去卡迪拉克大牧场。跟着我吧，垃圾虫，或者随便你他妈的是谁。” 他慢慢地倒在床上，刚打开的啤酒罐从松开的手中滑落，更多的啤酒流到了地毯上。 垃圾虫数了数，那小子一共喝了21罐啤酒。垃圾虫不明白，这么一个小人儿怎么能喝下这么多啤酒；但他非常明白现在是什么时候：他该走了。他明白这一点，但他喝多了，又虚弱又难受。眼下超越一切的需要是睡上一小会儿。没什么关系，不是吗？那小子一整夜都会睡得像根木头，说不定还会一直睡到明天上午。他有足够的时间小睡一会儿。 于是他走进另一个房间（尽管那小子睡得不省人事，他还是踮着脚尖），尽量把门关紧但是门关不太紧。子弹的力量使门有些变形。梳妆台上有一只停了的闹钟，垃圾虫上好发条，他不知道（也不关心）现在究竟是几点，于是暂且把时钟拨到12点，然后又把闹钟定到5点。房间里有两张并排的单人床，他往其中的一张上一躺，连鞋都没脱，不到5分钟就进入了梦乡。 不知过了多久，在黎明前的浓黑中，他醒了，微风吹来，是一股啤酒和呕吐物的混合味道。有什么东西在他的床上，温暖光滑的、蠕动着的什么东西。他首先惊慌地想到，一只黄鼠狼不知怎么从他的内布拉斯加的梦里跑到现实中来了。当他发现床上的动物太大，不可能是黄鼠狼时，他呻吟了一声，啤酒的力量使他头疼，疼痛在他的太阳穴上毫不留情地操练着。 “抓紧我，”那小子在黑暗中喃喃。垃圾虫的手被抓着，引向一个硬硬的、像活塞一样抽动着的圆柱体，“抓住。继续，抓住，你知道该怎么做，来吧，他妈的，抓住。” 垃圾虫知道怎么做。他是从监狱里那些漫漫长夜中知道这个的。他们说这样不好，是同性恋，可是那些躺在自己的床上，打着响指，看着你狞笑的人，他们的所做所为还不如同性恋者。 那小子把垃圾虫的手放在他的那种枪上。垃圾虫握紧了那枪，然后开始。等干完了，那小子会再睡着。他就可以逃走。 那小子的呼吸急促起来，他开始随着垃圾虫的抚摸扭起了屁股。起初垃圾虫没有料到，那小子也会解开他的腰带，把他的裤子和内裤褪至膝盖。垃圾虫没有反抗。如果那小子想干，那就干吧。垃圾虫以前也被干过。不会死的，这不是毒药。 突然他的手僵住了。什么东西顶在了他的肛门上，那不是肉体，而是冷冰冰的钢铁。 他一下子明白了那是什么东西。 “不，”他低低地说，在黑暗中恐惧地睁大了眼睛。现在他能在镜子里模糊地看到这个刽子手的布娃娃脸，头发掉进发红的眼睛里。 “是的，”那小子低低地应道，“你别想省事，垃圾虫，他妈的一点也别想。否则我就把你的排泄工厂送到地狱去。达姆弹，垃圾虫。你信不信这个快乐的牛皮？” 呜咽着，垃圾虫又开始抚摸他，0．45口径手枪的枪管进入了他的身体，旋转着，挖着，扯着，他的呜咽变成了痛苦的喘息。难道他会因此而兴奋吗？的确不错。 也许那小子觉察到了他的兴奋。 “喜欢这样，对不对？”那小子喘息着说，“我知道你会喜欢，你这个脓包。你喜欢把它放在你的屁眼里，对不对？说'对'，脓包，说呀。” “对。”垃圾虫呜咽着说。 “想让我对你这么做？” He did not want.不管兴奋与否，他都不想。但他知道，最好还是回答：“想。” “别臭美了。你自己干，你以为上帝给你两只手是干什么的？” 持续了多久？也许上帝知道，反正垃圾虫不知道。一分钟，一小时，一辈子有什么区别呢？在那小子达到高潮的时刻，他相信同时感觉到了两样东西：一是这个小怪物的精液热乎乎地射到了他的肚子上，二是达姆弹咆哮着穿过他的身体时发生的强烈爆炸。 而后那小子的臀部不动了，他的阴茎在垃圾虫的手中完成了骚动，拳头变得像橡胶手套一样平滑，过了一会儿，手枪收了回去。痛苦解除后，无声的泪水汹涌地流过垃圾虫的脸颊。他不怕死，至少不怕为黑衣人而死，但他不想在这样一个黑暗的汽车旅馆的房间里死在一个变态狂手中，不想死在看见锡沃拉之前。他应该向上帝祈祷，但他本能地知道，上帝不会对效忠黑衣人的人表示同情。何况上帝曾经为垃圾虫做过些什么呢？或者为唐纳德·默温·埃尔贝特做过些什么呢？ 安静了一会儿之后，那小子开始唱歌，他嗓门又高又跑调，渐渐地越来越弱，直到睡着： “我和弟兄们真的成了名人……啊，那些坏蛋认识我们，他们离开了我们……” 他打起了鼾。 现在我要走了，垃圾虫想。但他害怕他一动，会惊醒那小子。等我确定他真的睡着了，我马上就走。5分钟，不能再长了。 但没人知道黑暗中5分钟有多久；公平地说，黑暗中是不存在5分钟的。He waits.他在不知不觉中打起了瞌睡，不久就进入了梦乡。 他走在一条高高的昏暗的路上。星星近得仿佛伸手可及；似乎可以从天上把它们摘下来，塞进瓶子里，像捉萤火虫一样。天很黑，寒冷刺骨。朦胧中，借着淡淡的星光，他能看见高速路两旁的岩石峭壁。 黑暗中，有个什么东西正向他走来。 这时他的声音不知从哪儿，好像从四面八方传来：在山里，我要给你看一点预兆。我要向你显示我的力量。我要让你看看跟我做对的人是什么下场。等着瞧吧。 忽然在黑暗中睁开了许多红眼睛，好像有人在那儿放了3打蒙着篷布的险情信号灯，现在又有人把上面的篷布成对地扯下去了。那是眼睛，它们环绕着垃圾虫，围成一个预示死亡的圆圈。开始他以为那是黄鼠狼的眼睛，但是当围绕着他的圆圈越来越近，他看清了，那是灰色的大山狼，它们的耳朵朝前支楞着，黑乎乎的嘴巴泛着泡抹。 He was terrified. 它们不是冲着你来的，我忠实的好仆人。Understand? 后来它们走了。是的，喘息着的灰狼走了。 看，那声音说。 等着吧，那声音说。 梦结束了。他醒来，看见明亮的阳光透过旅馆的窗子射进来。 那小子站在窗前，丝毫看不出昨天晚上几乎被可斯啤酒醉死的痕迹。他把头发梳成和昨天一样的闪亮的旋涡式，这时正对着镜子自我欣赏。他把皮夹克搭在椅背上，带子上悬挂着的野兔脚像两个吊在绞架上的小尸体。 “嗨，脓包！我正打算叫醒你。来吧，今天是咱们干大事的日子，要干的事多着呢，我说的对吧？” “当然对。”垃圾虫答道，勉强挤出一个笑容。 8月5日晚上，当垃圾虫醒来的时候，他发现自己还躺在ＭＧＭ大饭店赌场的桌子上。一个金黄色直发、戴太阳镜的年轻人正坐在面前，靠在椅背上。他穿一件运动衫，Ｖ形领口敞开着，垃圾虫一眼就看到他脖子上挂着的宝石。这是一颗黑色的宝石，中间有点红色的瑕疵，像黑夜里狼的眼睛。 他