sk.everythingseventual-第50部分

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　　I　thought　about　stuff。　About　a　newspaper　columnist　who　had　liberal　ideas　and　a　conservative　readership。　About　an　AIDS　researcher　who　served　an　important　linking　function　with　other　AIDS　researchers。　About　an　old　general　who　changed　his　mind。　I　thought　about　the　fact　that　I　only　knew　these　three　by　name　because　they　didn't　have　modems　and　e…mail　capability。
　　There　was　other　stuff　to　think　about；　too。　Like　how　you　could　hypnotize　a　talented　guy；　or　drug　him；　or　maybe　even　expose　him　to　other　talented　guys　in　order　to　keep　him　from　asking　any　of　the　wrong　questions　or　doing　any　of　the　wrong　things。　Like　how　you　could　make　sure　such　a　talented　guy　couldn't　run　away　even　if　he　happened　to　wake　up　to　the　truth。　You'd　do　that　by　setting　him　up　in　what　was；　essentially；　a　cashless　existence　。　。　。　a　life　where　rule　number　one　was　no　ratholing　any　extra　dough；　not　even　pocket…change。　What　sort　of　talented　guy　would　fall　for　something　like　that？　A　naive　one；　with　few　friends　and　next　to　no　self…image。　A　guy　who　would　sell　you　his　talented　soul　for　a　few　groceries　and　seventy　bucks　a　week；　because　he　believes　that's　about　what　it's　worth。
　　I　didn't　want　to　think　about　any　of　that。　I　tried　to　concentrate　on　Rutger　Hauer；　doing　all　that　amusing　blind　karate　shit　（Pug　would　have　laughed　his　ass　off　if　he'd　been　there；　believe　me）；　so　I　wouldn't　have　to　think　about　any　of　that。
　　Two　hundred；　for　instance。　There　was　a　number　I　didn't　want　to　think　about。　200。　10　x　20；　40　x　5。　CC；　to　the　old　Romans。　At　least　two　hundred　times　I'd　pushed　the　button　that　brought　the　message　DINKYMAIL　SENT　up　on　my　screen。
　　It　occurred　to　me…for　the　first　time；　as　if　I　was　finally　waking　up…that　I　was　a　murderer。　A　mass　murderer。
　　Yes　indeed。　That's　what　it　es　down　to。
　　Good　of　mankind？　Bad　of　mankind？　Indifferent　of　mankind？　Who　makes　those　judgements？　Mr。　Sharpton？　His　bosses？　Their　bosses？　And　does　it　matter？
　　I　decided　it　didn't　matter　a　fuck　in　a　rabbit…hutch。　I　further　decided　I　really　couldn't　spend　too　much　time　moaning　（even　to　myself）　how　I　had　been　drugged；　hypnotized；　or　exposed　to　some　kind　of　mind…control。　The　truth　was；　I'd　been　doing　what　I　was　doing　because　I　loved　the　feeling　I　got　when　I　was　posing　the　special　letters；　the　feeling　that　there　was　a　river　of　fire　running　through　the　center　of　my　head。
　　Mostly；　I'd　been　doing　it　because　I　could。
　　'That's　not　true；'　I　said　。　。　。　but　not　real　loud。　I　whispered　it　under　my　breath。　They　probably　don't　have　any　bugs　planted　here；　I'm　sure　they　don't；　but　it's　best　to　be　safe。
　　I　started　writing　this　。　。　。　what　is　it？　A　report；　maybe。　I　started　writing　this　report　later　that　night　。　。　。　as　soon　as　the　Rutger　Hauer　movie　was　over；　in　fact。　I　write　in　a　notebook；　though；　not　on　my　puter；　and　I　write　in　plain　old　English。　No　sankofites；　no　bews；　no　smims。　There's　a　loose　floor…tile　under　the　Ping…Pong　table　down　in　the　basement。　That's　where　I　keep　my　report。　I　just　now　looked　back　at　how　I　started。　I've　got　a　good　job　now；　I　wrote；　and　no　reason　to　feel　glum。　Idiotic。　But　of　course；　any　fool　who　can　pucker　is　apt　to　whistle　past　the　graveyard。
　　When　I　went　to　bed　that　night；　I　dreamed　I　was　in　the　parking　lot　of　the　Supr　Savr。　Pug　was　there；　wearing　his　red　duster　and　a　hat　on　his　head　like　the　one　Mickey　Mouse　wore　in　Fantasia…that's　the　movie　where　Mickey　played　the　Sorcerer's　Apprentice。　Halfway　across　the　parking　lot；　shopping　carts　were　lined　up　in　a　row。　Pug　would　raise　his　hand；　then　lower　it。　Each　time　he　did　this；　a　cart　would　start　rolling　by　itself；　gathering　speed；　rushing　across　the　lot　until　it　crashed　into　the　brick　side　of　the　supermarket。　They　were　piling　up　there；　a　glittering　junkheap　of　metal　and　wheels。　For　once　in　his　life；　Pug　wasn't　smiling。　I　wanted　to　ask　him　what　he　was　doing　and　what　it　meant；　but　of　course　I　knew。
　　'He's　been　good　to　me；'　I　told　Pug　in　this　dream。　It　was　Mr。　Sharp…ton　I　meant；　of　course。　'He's　been　really；　really　eventual。'
　　Pug　turned　fully　to　me　then；　and　I　saw　it　wasn't　Pug　at　all。　It　was　Skipper；　and　his　head　had　been　smashed　in　all　the　way　down　to　the　eyebrows。　Shattered　hunks　of　skull　stuck　up　in　a　circle；　making　him　look　like　he　was　wearing　a　bone　crown。
　　'You're　not　looking　through　a　bombsight；'　Skipper　said；　and　grinned。　'You　are　the　bombsight。　How　do　you　like　that；　Dinkster？'
　　I　woke　up　in　the　dark　of　my　room；　sweating；　with　my　hands　over　my　mouth　to　hold　in　a　scream；　so　I　guess　I　didn't　like　it　very　much。
　　
　　XIX
　　
　　Writing　this　has　been　a　sad　education；　let　me　tell　you。　It's　like　hey；　Dink；　wele　to　the　real　world。　Mostly　it's　the　image　of　grinding　up　dollar　bills　in　the　kitchen　pig　that　es　to　me　when　I　think　about　what　has　happened　to　me；　but　I　know　that's　only　because　it's　easier　to　think　of　grinding　up　money　（or　chucking　it　into　the　storm…drain）　than　it　is　to　think　about　grinding　up　people。　Sometimes　I　hate　myself；　sometimes　I'm　scared　for　my　immortal　soul　（if　I　have　one）；　and　sometimes　I'm　just　embarrassed。　Trust　me；　Mr。　Sharpton　said；　and　I　did。　I　mean；　duh；　how　dumb　can　you　get？　I　tell　myself　I'm　just　a　kid；　the　same　age　as　the　kids　who　crewed　those　B…25s　I　sometimes　think　about；　that　kids　are　allowed　to　be　dumb。　But　I　wonder　if　that's　true　when　lives　are　at　stake。
　　And；　of　course；　I'm　still　doing　it。
　　Yes。
　　I　thought　at　first　that　I　wouldn't　be　able　to；　no　more　than　the　kids　in　Mary　Poppins　could　keep　floating　around　the　house　when　they　lost　their　happy　thoughts　。　。　。　but　I　could。　And　once　I　sat　down　in　front　of　the　puter　screen　and　that　river　of　fire　started　to　flow；　I　was　lost。　You　see　（at　least　I　think　you　do）；　this　is　what　I　was　put　on　Planet　Earth　for。　Can　I　be　blamed　for　doing　the　thing　that　finishes　me　off；　that　pletes　me？
　　Answer：　yes。　Absolutely。
　　But　I　can't　stop。　Sometimes　I　tell　myself　that　I've　gone　on　because　if　I　do　stop…maybe　even　for　a　day…they'll　know　I've　caught　on；　and　the　cleaners　will　make　an　unscheduled　stop。　Except　what　they'll　clean　up　this　time　will　be　me。　But　that's　not　why。　I　do　it　because　I'm　just　another　addict；　same　as　a　guy　smoking　crack　in　an　alley　or　some　chick　taking　a　spike　in　her　arm。　I　do　it　because　of　the　hateful　fucking　rush；　I　do　it　because　when　I'm　working　in　DINKY'S　NOTEBOOK；　everything's　eventual。　It's　like　being　caught　in　a　candy　trap。　And　it's　all　the　fault　of　that　dork　who　came　out　of　News　Plus　with　his　fucking　Dispatch　open。　If　not　for　him；　I'd　still　see　nothing　but　cloud…hazy　buildings　in　the　crosshairs。　No　people；　just　targets。
　　You　are　the　bombsight；　Skipper　said　in　my　dream。　You　are　the　bomb…sight；　Dinkster。
　　That's　true。　I　know　it　is。　Horrible　but　true。　I'm　just　another　tool；　just　the　lens　the　real　bombardier　looks　through。　Just　the　button　he　pushes。
　　What　bombardier；　you　ask？
　　Oh　e　on；　get　real。
　　I　thought　of　calling　him；　how's　that　for　crazy？　Or　maybe　it's　not。　'Call　me　anytime；　Dink；　even　three　in　the　morning。'　That's　what　the　man　said；　and　I'm　pretty　sure　that's　what　the　man　meant…about　that；　at　least；　Mr。　Sharpton　wasn't　lying。
　　I　thought　of　calling　him　and　saying；　'You　want　to　know　what　hurts　the　most；　Mr。　Sharpton？　That　thing　you　said　about　how　I　could　make　the　world　a　better　place　by　getting　rid　of　people　like　Skipper。　The　truth　is；　you're　the　guys　like　Skipper。'
　　Sure。　And　I'm　the　shopping　cart　they　chase　people　with；　laughing　and　barking　and　making　race…car　sounds。　I　work　cheap；　too　。　。　。　at　bargain…basement　rates。　So　far　I've　killed　over　two　hundred　people；　and　what　did　it　cost　TransCorp？　A　little　house　in　a　third…rate　Ohio　town；　seventy　bucks　a　week；　and　a　Honda　automobile。　Plus　cable　TV。　Don't　want　to　forget　that。
　　I　stood　there　for　awhile；　looking　at　the　telephone；　then　put　it　down　again。　Couldn't　say　any　of　that。　It　would　be　the　same　as　putting　a　Baggie　over　my　head　and　then　slitting　my　wrists。
　　So　what　am　I　going　to　do？
　　Oh　God；　what　am　I　going　to　do？
　　
　　XX
　　
　　It's　been　two　weeks　since　I　last　took　this　notebook　out　from　under　the　basement　tile　and　wrote　in　it。　Twice　I've　heard　the　mail…slot　clack　on　Thursdays；　during　As　the　World　Turns；　and　gone　out　into　the　hall　to　get　my　money。　I've　gone　to　four　movies；　all　in　the　afternoon。　Twice　I've　ground　up　money　in　the　kitchen　pig；　and　thrown　my　loose　change　down　the　storm…drain；　hiding　what　I　was　doing　behind　the　blue　plastic　recycling　basket　when　I　put　it　down　on　the　curb。　One　day　I　went　down　to　News　Plus；　thinking　I'd　get　a　copy　of　Variations　or　Forum；　but　there　was　a　headline　on　the　front　of　the　Dispatch　that　once　again　took　away　any　sexy　feelings　I　might　have　had。　POPE　DIES　OF　HEART　ATTACK　ON　PEACE　MISSION；　it　said。
　　Did　I　do　it？　Nah；　the　story　said　he　died　in　Asia；　and　I've　been　sticking　to　the　American　Northwest　these　last　few　weeks。　But　I　could　have　been　the　one。　If　I'd　been　nosing　around　in　Pakistan　last　week；　I　very　likely　would　have　been　the　one。
　　Two　weeks　of　living　in　a　nightmare。
　　Then；　this　morning；　there　was　something　in　the　mail。　Not　a　letter；　I've　only　gotten　three　or　four　of　those　（all　from　Pug；　and　now　he's　stopped　writing；　and　I　miss　him　so　much）；　but　a　Kmart　advertising　circular。　It　flopped　open　just　as　I　was　putting　it　into　the　trash；　and　something　fluttered　out。　A　note；　printed　in　block　letters。　DO　YOU　WANT　OUT？　it　read。　IF　YES；　SEND　MESSAGE　'DON'T　STAND　SO　CLOSE　TO　ME'　IS　BEST　POLICE　SONG。
　　My　heart　was　beating　hard　and　fast；　the　way　it　did　on　the　day　I　came　into　my　house　and　saw　the　Rembrandt　print　over　the　sofa　where　the　velvet　clowns　had　been。
　　Below　the　message；　someone　had　drawn　a　fouder。　It　was　harmless　just　sitting　there　all　by　itself；　but　looking　at　it　still　made　all　the　spit　in　my　mouth　dry　up。　It　was　a　real　message；　the　fouder　proved　it；　but　who　had　it　e　from？　And　how　did　the　sender　know　about　me？
　　I　went　into　the　study；　walking　slowly　with　my　head　down；　thinking。　A　message　tucked　into　an　advertising　circular。　Hand…printed　and　tucked　into　an　advertising　circular。　That　meant　someone　close。　Someone　in　town。
　　I　turned　on　my　puter　and　modem。　I　called　the　Columbia　City　Public　Library；　where　you　can　surf　cheap　。　。　。　and　in　relative　anonymity。　Anything　I　sent　would　go　through　TransCorp　in　Chicago；　but　that　wasn't　going　to　matter。　They　weren't