all the time now, sleeping and pissing in her bed, brain circuits totally fried.
Doctor, terrific husband that he was, hired private-duty nurses to take care of her. Different ones each week, fat nigger broads and swishy faggots-they just sat there doing crossword puzzles and smoking, changed the sheets, stole jewelry and food.
The maids were gone; in their place, a retardo nigger who came in once a week to dust and clear away the dishes.
The house had started to smell old and stale. Like death. Only his room was clean. And the library.
He cleaned those himself.
Cleanliness next to godliness.
Nice quiet house-he was Lord of the Manor.
He made a stab at junior college, taking Mickey Mouse courses and attending just often enough to pass. Kept his job at the hospital for fun, working three afternoons a week delivering mail-richest fucking mailboy in the city.
He read journals and books in the hospital library, learned a lot. Snuck into the pathology lab, opened body drawers and fondled the cadavers, rubbed himself against cold flesh, ogled welcome holes and jars of organs. Coded new mind pictures.
Nighttime was the right time.
Cruising Nasty Boulevard, ogling the geeks, freaks, junkies, slime-os, and whores. Using the Jag for show, the Plymouth for serious business. He craved new identities, sought out the theatrical supply shops on Nasty and bought disguises: hats, glasses and sunglasses, false mustaches, beards and wigs, to make himself look different. Be different. Prac-ticed talking voices, using different mannerisms.
He could be anyone!
In the beginning he just cruised and ogled. Passed the motel where he'd caught Doctor and the candy-striper, saw only soft cars, a different slant at the desk.
He stopped, closed his eyes, and wondered what was going on inside. How many whores were fucking how many geeks, the things they were doing, a treasure trove of mind pictures. Whores, the ultimate females.
He decided to relate to them, cruised by them for weeks, catching smiles, but not ready to make contact, then finally doing it, heart pounding the same way it had when he sat on the stairs.
He picked one at random, from a hot-pants her leaning against a lmppost. Spoke his lines.
didn't even bother to notice what she looked like until she'd gotten in and he'd driven a couple of blocks.
Total downer: fat nigger bitch, Ubangi lips and white eye shadow. Sagging tits, stretch marks-she had to be forty.
They pulled off on a side street in the Plymouth, agreed to a blow-job in the front seat.
He finished fast; the bitch coughed and spat him out into a handkerchief as if he were garbage. Wholly unsatisfactory, but a start.
The next few times were the same, but still he liked it, collecting pictures for the memory file. Lying in bed hours later, imagining himself later opening up the whores, exploring their welcome holes, cleaning them and feeling totally cool and in charge.
Then he met Nightwing.
She worked by herself, on a quiet corner several blocks east of the hot-pants hens. Good bone structure despite the red-black lipstick, chalk-white Vampira makeup, and mile-long false eyelashes. Meaty thighs bulging out of a black silk microskirt. All in black.
A little older than he, early twenties probably. Short and stacked, long dark hair, big dark eyes, a terrific face.
A Sarah face!
That was the main thing! The resemblance totally freaked him out-so much that the first time he saw her he sped up and drove by without doing a thing. Drove for a mile until he'd gotten hold of himself, then circled back on the boulevard, hanging a U and cruising slowly toward her street corner.
In the Jag, top down, tweed jacket, deerstalker cap, bristly mustache. Identity: British sophisticate.
She was talking to this fat spic, haggling. The spic shook his head and walked away. She flipped him the bird.
He slowed down, took a good look at her, at the Sarah face.
She saw the car first, shiny bumpers, sloping headlights, hard-on front end. Smelled money, looked up at him and licked her lips. totaly sharp little white teeth. Cat teeth.
Cutie, wanna party? nurses accent. Wop? Spic?
Still freaked, he passed her by again, looked in the rear-view mirror and saw her flip him off.
Next night he was in the Plymouth, different hat, no fake hair. No recognition.
Hey, cutie.
He leaned over and pushed the door open: Hop right in, babe. Saying it movie-stud cool, but so nervous a tickle would have made him pee his pants.
She came to the curb, leaned in, tits hanging out of a black vinyl halter.
Well, hello there. Looking him over.
