we'll eat on the run, maybe drop in on your dad.' Laura's voice broke. 'I feel so bad about that little dog. I never wanted him in the first place, but now he's become a part of us. I know it's not important compared to what you're dealing with but-'
'It is important. When I get out of here, I'll drive around and look for him, okay? Was he wearing his tag?'
'Of course.'
'Then, one way or another, we'll find him. Don't worry.'
'I'm sure you're right. Why would he go and do this, Daniel?'
'Hormones. He's probably feeling romantic. Probably found himself a girlfriend-a Great Dane.'
Laura laughed again, this time softly. 'Put it that way, and I don't feel so sorry for him.'
'Me neither,' said Daniel. 'I feel jealous.'
Gone, all three charts.
Predictable. Boring.
Borrring.
He though about it and stretched his grin until it threatened to split his face, visualized his face dividing in two and reconstituting. Mytosis-wouldn't that be something? Two superior Aryan Schwann-hemi-faces rolling over Kikeland like nuclear mace balls, churning up the soup, steamrolling the scum
Three charts, big deal. They probably thought they had a fucking bible, but they were limited thinkers, predictable. Let it lull them into a false sense of superiority.
Meanwhile, he'd be creative. The key was to be crea-
Stick to the plan, but allow for improvisation. Float above the scum-sump, trading identity for triumph.
Clean up afterward.
No doubt they were watching.
No doubt they thought they had it all figured out.
Like Fields had, so long ago. Grand Prix BoJo, all the real science girls.
All his little pets, now purified, part of him.
Nightwing.
Pet names, private identities. Remembering them made him hard.
Gauguin Girl, washing clothes by the river when he found her. Hi!
Voodoo Queen, talking gris-gris and mojo and other ipooky jive in the light of a wet, yellow Louisiana moon. Taking him to the cemetery, trying to come on evil. But fading without struggle, just like all the others.
Pocahontas. Trading it all-for powdered trinkets.
Jugs. Twinkie. Stoner. Kikette. Still, white shells lying emptied, explored. All those welcome holes the ultimate memory picture. All the others. So many others. Pet names, limp limbs, last looks before fading to final bliss.
Last looks full of trust.
And here: Little Lost Girl. Beirut Bimbo. The Barreness.
These sand-nigger females the most trusting of all; they respected a man, looked up to a man of position-a man of science.
Yes, Doctor.
Do with me what you will, Doctor.
He'd come to Kikeland with just a general blueprint for Project Untermensch. Discovering that cave on the nature hike had put it all in place-an inspiration jolt straight to the brain, straight to the cock.
Nightwing II. Meant to be.
Executive command to Dieter II, directly from the F?hrergod.
His own nature hike with Little Lost Girl.
Wet cavework, then spread out.
Spread them all out, wiping his ass all over Kike City.
He started to stroke himself, one hand resting on the dog collar, fondling the dog tag with the kike letters stamped into it-what did it say? Kikemutt?
Knowing it wouldn't take long, the safari almost over.
Rest in peace. Pieces. Clean-up time.
Surprise, surprise!
Bow wow wow.
At ten P.M., Amsterdam called. Van Gelder's man was a slow talker, deep-voiced. No policeman-to-policeman chit-chat: This one was all business.
