sk.everythingseventual-第7部分

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　　I　feel　her　rubber…gloved　hand　slide　around　my　penis　as　if　she　means　to　give　me　some　bizarre　handjob；　safe　sex　with　the　dead；　and　then　she　says；　'You　missed　this　one；　Pete。'
　　He　leans　over；　looking　at　what　she's　found…the　scar　in　my　groin；　at　the　very　top　of　my　right　thigh；　a　glassy；　no…pore　bowl　in　the　flesh。
　　Her　hand　is　still　holding　my　cock；　holding　it　out　of　the　way；　that's　all　she's　doing；　as　far　as　she's　concerned　she　might　as　well　be　holding　up　a　sofa　cushion　so　someone　else　can　see　the　treasure　she's　found　beneath　it…coins；　a　lost　wallet；　maybe　the　catnip　mouse　you　haven't　been　able　to　find…but　something　is　happening。
　　Dear　wheelchair　Jesus　on　a　chariot…driven　crutch；　something　is　happening。
　　'And　look；'　she　says。　Her　finger　strokes　a　light；　tickly　line　down　the　side　of　my　right　testicle。　'Look　at　these　hairline　scars。　His　testes　must　have　swollen　up　to　damned　near　the　size　of　grapefruits。'
　　'Lucky　he　didn't　lose　one　or　both。'
　　'You　bet　your　。　。　。　you　bet　your　you…knows；'　she　says；　and　laughs　that　mildly　suggestive　laugh　again。　Her　gloved　hand　loosens；　moves；　then　pushes　down　firmly；　trying　to　clear　the　viewing　area。　She　is　doing　by　accident　what　you　might　pay　twenty…five　or　thirty　bucks　to　have　done　on　purpose　。　。　。　under　other　circumstances；　of　course。　'This　is　a　war　wound；　I　think。　Hand　me　that　magnifier；　Pete。'
　　'But　shouldn't　I…'
　　'In　a　few　seconds；'　she　says。　'He's　not　going　anywhere。　She's　totally　absorbed　by　what　she's　found。　Her　hand　is　still　on　me；　still　pressing　down；　and　what　was　happening　feels　like　it's　still　happening；　but　maybe　I'm　wrong。　I　must　be　wrong；　or　he　would　see　it；　she　would　feel　it。
　　She　bends　down　and　now　I　can　see　only　her　green…clad　back。　with　the　ties　from　her　cap　trailing　down　it　like　odd　pigtails。　Now；　oh　my；　I　can　feel　her　breath　on　me　down　there。
　　'Notice　the　outward　radiation；'　she　says。　'It　was　a　blast　wound　of　some　sort；　probably　ten　years　ago　at　least；　we　could　check　his　military　rec…'
　　The　door　bursts　open。　Pete　cries　out　in　surprise。　Dr。　Arlen　doesn't；　but　her　hand　tightens　involuntarily；　she's　gripping　me　again　and　it's　all　at　once　like　a　hellish　variation　of　the　old　Naughty　Nurse　fantasy。
　　'Don't　cut　'im　up！'　someone　screams；　and　his　voice　is　so　high　and　wavery　with　fright　that　I　barely　recognize　Rusty。　'Don't　cut　'im　up；　there　was　a　snake　in　his　golfbag　and　it　bit　Mike！'
　　They　turn　to　him；　eyes　wide；　jaws　dropped；　her　hand　is　still　gripping　me；　but　she's　no　more　aware　of　that；　at　least　for　the　time　being；　than　Petie…boy　is　aware　that　he's　got　one　hand　clutching　the　left　breast　of　his　scrub　gown。　He　looks　like　he's　the　one　with　the　clapped…out　fuel　pump。
　　'What　。　。　。　what　are　you　。　。　。　'　Pete　begins。
　　'Knocked　him　flat！'　Rusty　was　saying…babbling。　'He's　gonna　be　okay；　I　guess；　but　he　can　hardly　talk！'　Little　brown　snake；　I　never　saw　one　like　it　in　my　life；　it　went　under　the　loadin'　bay；　it's　under　there　right　now；　but　that's　not　the　important　part！　I　think　it　already　bit　that　guy　we　brought　in。　I　think　。　。　。　holy　shit；　Doc；　whatja　tryin'　to　do？　Stroke　'im　back　to　life？'
　　She　looks　around；　dazed；　at　first　not　sure　of　what　he's　talking　about　。　。　。　until　she　realizes　that　she's　now　holding　a　mostly　erect　penis。　And　as　she　screams…screams　and　snatches　the　shears　out　of　Pete's　limp　gloved　hand…I　find　myself　thinking　again　of　that　old　Alfred　Hitchcock　TV　show。
　　Poor　old　Joseph　Cotton；　I　think。
　　He　only　got　to　cry。
　　
　　Afternote
　　
　　It's　been　a　year　since　my　experience　in　Autopsy　Room　Four；　and　I　have　made　a　plete　recovery；　although　the　paralysis　was　both　stubborn　and　scary；　it　was　a　full　month　before　I　began　to　recover　the　finer　motions　of　my　fingers　and　toes。　I　still　can't　play　the　piano；　but　then；　of　course；　I　never　could。　That　is　a　joke；　and　I　make　no　apologies　for　it。　In　the　first　three　months　after　my　misadventure；　I　think　that　my　ability　to　joke　provided　a　slim　but　vital　margin　between　sanity　and　some　sort　of　nervous　breakdown。　Unless　you've　actually　felt　the　tip　of　a　pair　of　postmortem　shears　poking　into　your　stomach；　you　don't　know　what　I　mean。
　　Two　weeks　or　so　after　my　close　call；　a　woman　on　Dupont　Street　called　the　Derry　Police　to　plain　of　a　'foul　stink'　ing　from　the　house　next　door。　That　house　belonged　to　a　bachelor　bank　clerk　named　Walter　Kerr。　Police　found　the　house　empty　。　。　。　of　human　life；　that　is。　They　found　over　sixty　snakes　of　different　varieties。　About　half　of　them　were　dead…starvation　and　dehydration…but　many　were　extremely　lively　。　。　。　and　extremely　dangerous。　Several　were　very　rare；　and　one　was　of　a　species　believed　to　have　been　extinct　since　mid…century；　according　to　consulting　herpetologists。
　　Kerr　failed　to　show　up　for　work　at　Derry　munity　Bank　on　August　22nd；　two　days　after　I　was　bitten；　one　day　after　the　story　（PARALYZED　MAN　ESCAPES　DEADLY　AUTOPSY；　the　headline　read；　at　one　point　I　was　quoted　as　saying　I　had　been　'scared　stiff'）　broke　in　the　press。
　　There　was　a　snake　for　every　cage　in　Kerr's　basement　menagerie；　except　for　one。　The　empty　cage　was　unmarked；　and　the　snake　that　popped　out　of　my　golf　bag　（the　ambulance　orderlies　had　packed　it　in　with　my　'corpse'　and　had　been　practicing　chip　shots　out　in　the　ambulance　parking　area）　was　never　found。　The　toxin　in　my　bloodstream…the　same　toxin　found　to　a　far　lesser　degree　in　orderly　Mike　Hopper's　bloodstream…was　documented　but　never　identified。　I　have　looked　at　a　great　many　pictures　of　snakes　in　the　last　year；　and　have　found　at　least　one　that　has　reportedly　caused　cases　of　full…body　paralysis　in　humans。　This　is　the　Peruvian　boomslang；　a　nasty　viper　that　has　supposedly　been　extinct　since　the　1920s。　Dupont　Street　is　less　than　half　a　mile　from　the　Derry　Municipal　Golf　Course。　Most　of　the　intervening　land　consists　of　scrub　woods　and　vacant　lots。
　　One　final　note。　Katie　Arlen　and　I　dated　for　four　months；　November　1994　through　February　of　1995。　We　broke　it　off　by　mutual　consent；　due　to　sexual　inpatibility。
　　I　was　impotent　unless　she　was　wearing　rubber　gloves。
　　
　　
　　At　some　point　I　think　every　writer　of　scary　stories　has　to　tackle　the　subject　of　premature　burial；　if　only　because　it　seems　to　be　such　a　pervasive　fear。　When　I　was　a　kid　of　seven　or　so；　the　scariest　TV　program　going　was　Alfred　Hitchcock　Presents；　and　the　scariest　AHP…my　friends　and　I　were　in　total　agreement　on　this…was　the　one　starring　Joseph　Gotten　as　a　man　who　has　been　injured　in　a　car　accident。　Injured　so　badly；　in　fact；　that　the　doctors　think　he's　dead。　They　can't　even　find　a　heartbeat。　They　are　on　the　verge　of　doing　a　postmortem　on　him…cutting　him　up　while　he's　still　alive　and　screaming　inside；　in　other　words…when　he　produces　one　single　tear　to　let　them　know　he's　still　alive。　That　was　touching；　but　touching　isn't　in　my　usual　repertoire。　When　my　own　thoughts　turned　to　this　subject；　a　more…shall　we　say　modern？…method　of　municating　liveliness　occurred　to　me；　and　this　story　was　the　result。　One　final　note；　regarding　the　snake：　I　doubt　like　hell　if　there's　any　such　reptile　as　a　Peruvian　boomslang；　but　in　one　of　her　Miss　Marple　capers；　Dame　Agatha　Christie　does　mention　an　African　boomslang。　I　just　liked　the　word　so　much　（boomslang；　not　African；）　I　had　to　put　it　in　this　story。
　　　
　　　
　　　
　　　THE　MAN　IN　THE　BLACK　SUIT
　　
　　
　　I　am　now　a　very　old　man　and　this　is　something　which　happened　to　me　when　I　was　very　young…only　nine　years　old。　It　was　1914；　the　summer　after　my　brother　Dan　died　in　the　west　field　and　three　years　before　America　got　into　World　War　I。　I've　never　told　anyone　about　what　happened　at　the　fork　in　the　stream　that　day；　and　I　never　will　。　。　。　at　least　not　with　my　mouth。　I've　decided　to　write　it　down；　though；　in　this　book　which　I　will　leave　on　the　table　beside　my　bed。　I　can't　write　long；　because　my　hands　shake　so　these　days　and　I　have　next　to　no　strength；　but　I　don't　think　it　will　take　long。
　　Later；　someone　may　find　what　I　have　written。　That　seems　likely　to　me；　as　it　is　pretty　much　human　nature　to　look　in　a　book　marked　DIARY　after　its　owner　has　passed　along。　So　yes…my　words　will　probably　be　read。　A　better　question　is　whether　or　not　anyone　will　believe　them。　Almost　certainly　not；　but　that　doesn't　matter。　It's　not　belief　I'm　interested　in　but　freedom。　Writing　can　give　that；　I've　found。　For　twenty　years　I　wrote　a　column　called　'Long　Ago　and　Far　Away'　for　the　Castle　Rock　Call；　and　I　know　that　sometimes　it　works　that　way…what　you　write　down　sometimes　leaves　you　forever；　like　old　photographs　left　in　the　bright　sun；　fading　to　nothing　but　white。
　　I　pray　for　that　sort　of　release。
　　A　man　in　his　nineties　should　be　well　past　the　terrors　of　childhood；　but　as　my　infirmities　slowly　creep　up　on　me；　like　waves　licking　closer　and　closer　to　some　indifferently　built　castle　of　sand；　that　terrible　face　grows　clearer　and　clearer　in　my　mind's　eye。　It　glows　like　a　dark　star　in　the　constellations　of　my　childhood。　What　I　might　have　done　yesterday；　who　I　might　have　seen　here　in　my　room　at　the　nursing　home；　what　I　might　have　said　to　them　or　they　to　me　。　。　。　those　things　are　gone；　but　the　face　of　the　man　in　the　black　suit　grows　ever　clearer；　ever　closer；　and　I　remember　every　word　he　said。　I　don't　want　to　think　of　him　but　I　can't　help　it；　and　sometimes　at　night　my　old　heart　beats　so　hard　and　so　fast　I　think　it　will　tear　itself　right　clear　of　my　chest。　So　I　uncap　my　fountain　pen　and　force　my　trembling　old　hand　to　write　this　pointless　anecdote　in　the　diary　one　of　my　great…grandchildren…I　can't　remember　her　name　for　sure；　at　least　not　right　now；　but　I　know　it　starts　with　an　S…gave　to　me　last　Christmas；　and　which　I　have　never　written　in　until　now。　Now　I　will　write　in　it。　I　will　write　the　story　of　how　I　met　the　man　in　the　black　suit　on　the　bank　of　Castle　Stream　one　afternoon　in　the　summer　of　1914。
　　
　　The　town　of　Motton　was　a　different　world　in　those　days…more　different　than　I　could　ever　tell　you。　That　was　a　world　without　airplanes　droning　overhead；　a　world　almost　without　cars　and　trucks；　a　world　where　the　skies　were　not　cut　into　lanes　and　slices　by　overhead　power　lines。
　　There　was　not　a　single　paved　road　in　the　whole　town；　and　the　business　district　consisted　of　nothing　but　Corson's　General　Store；　Thut's　Livery　&　Hardware；　the　Methodist　Church　at　Chris