peectures."
The power of these pictures to control and induce were beyond question. I believe if given enough of them Harris would have walked into a bonfire— indeed, I would have done the same thing. The quality of the pictures wasn't great. They were
black-and-white and small and grainy. But they worked. It was impossible to look at them and still breathe correctly. My dilemma was mostly one of quantity. I knew I could get the experiment to work, but with how much effort?
How many pictures would it take?
I had, altogether, seven of them and since I was interested in them myself—purely from an artistic viewpoint, of course—I didn't want to completely deplete the collection.
I offered Harris one picture. It was not the best picture—the best picture I wouldn't have released if Harris had bitten the wire and hung on with his mouth (something I considered suggesting when I remembered what he had done with the first love of my life)—but it was a good picture: accurate in detail, fundamentally sound as far as composition and educational benefits were concerned, and far reaching in its ability to promote advanced stages of hyperventilation.
"Nope," he repeated. "I ain't gonna do it."
But his refusal was soft. I could sense the weakness in it and I countered. The picture I'd offered, plus one other, the one where it was possible to See It All.
"Well ..."
I had him.
"First the rules."
"What rules?"
"You have to pee right on the wire—not just pass over it—and you have to pee on it long enough to get the surge." (It was a pulse fencer, not on continuously but pulsing at one-second intervals.) "Otherwise it's not a deal."
He thought another minute, studying the wire. "That thing put a sow on her knees ..."
I shook my head. "She was off balance. Besides, two of the pictures for your very own—that's a good swap."
Yet another minute, then a sigh. "All right. Go get the pictures."
I ran to the house, took out the two selected pictures, put them under my shirt, and trotted back to the barn where Harris was still standing, looking at the wire.
"I've got them."
"Let me see."
I raised my shirt and showed him the pictures, lowered it. "So go ahead—pee on it."
He unbuttoned the fly on his bibs and took his business out, then stood there, frowning.
"What's the matter?"
"It don't work. Nothing's coming out."
"Push a little."
"I am. It's scared. It don't want to do it."
"If you don't pee on the wire, the deal is oil/' I reminded him, thinking it would prompt action.
"I know, I know. It just won't work." His frown deepened. "It's like it knows what's coming and don't want to do it."
"Two pictures ..."
"I'll have to lie to it."
"Lie to what?"
"My business. I'll just have to lie to it and start peeing over here, then swing it around, make the dumb thing think everything is all right."
He turned sideways, aimed away from the fence, and in a moment it started.
"So turn," I said. "Before it's done."
"It ain't that easy. Something in me won't let it happen ..."
"Ahh heck, you're going to run out."
"No, I'm holding her back. Here, now ..."
He turned slowly until the stream of urine was only inches away from the wire, hung there for a second, then hit the wire.
"There," he said, "now are you hap—"
He had crossed the wire between pulses, when the electricity wasn't moving through the wire, and the pulse hit him halfway through the word happy.
Later I would come to know a great deal about electrical things. I would understand that water is an
excellent conductor of electrical energy but that urine, with its higher mineral content, is even better and what Harris did amounted to hooking a copper wire from his business to the electric fence.
The results were immediate, and everything I would have hoped for from a standpoint of scientific observation, not to mention revenge.
In a massive galvanic reaction every muscle in Harris's body convulsively contracted, jerking like a giant spring had tightened
The power of these pictures to control and induce were beyond question. I believe if given enough of them Harris would have walked into a bonfire— indeed, I would have done the same thing. The quality of the pictures wasn't great. They were
black-and-white and small and grainy. But they worked. It was impossible to look at them and still breathe correctly. My dilemma was mostly one of quantity. I knew I could get the experiment to work, but with how much effort?
How many pictures would it take?
I had, altogether, seven of them and since I was interested in them myself—purely from an artistic viewpoint, of course—I didn't want to completely deplete the collection.
I offered Harris one picture. It was not the best picture—the best picture I wouldn't have released if Harris had bitten the wire and hung on with his mouth (something I considered suggesting when I remembered what he had done with the first love of my life)—but it was a good picture: accurate in detail, fundamentally sound as far as composition and educational benefits were concerned, and far reaching in its ability to promote advanced stages of hyperventilation.
"Nope," he repeated. "I ain't gonna do it."
But his refusal was soft. I could sense the weakness in it and I countered. The picture I'd offered, plus one other, the one where it was possible to See It All.
"Well ..."
I had him.
"First the rules."
"What rules?"
"You have to pee right on the wire—not just pass over it—and you have to pee on it long enough to get the surge." (It was a pulse fencer, not on continuously but pulsing at one-second intervals.) "Otherwise it's not a deal."
He thought another minute, studying the wire. "That thing put a sow on her knees ..."
I shook my head. "She was off balance. Besides, two of the pictures for your very own—that's a good swap."
Yet another minute, then a sigh. "All right. Go get the pictures."
I ran to the house, took out the two selected pictures, put them under my shirt, and trotted back to the barn where Harris was still standing, looking at the wire.
"I've got them."
"Let me see."
I raised my shirt and showed him the pictures, lowered it. "So go ahead—pee on it."
He unbuttoned the fly on his bibs and took his business out, then stood there, frowning.
"What's the matter?"
"It don't work. Nothing's coming out."
"Push a little."
"I am. It's scared. It don't want to do it."
"If you don't pee on the wire, the deal is oil/' I reminded him, thinking it would prompt action.
"I know, I know. It just won't work." His frown deepened. "It's like it knows what's coming and don't want to do it."
"Two pictures ..."
"I'll have to lie to it."
"Lie to what?"
"My business. I'll just have to lie to it and start peeing over here, then swing it around, make the dumb thing think everything is all right."
He turned sideways, aimed away from the fence, and in a moment it started.
"So turn," I said. "Before it's done."
"It ain't that easy. Something in me won't let it happen ..."
"Ahh heck, you're going to run out."
"No, I'm holding her back. Here, now ..."
He turned slowly until the stream of urine was only inches away from the wire, hung there for a second, then hit the wire.
"There," he said, "now are you hap—"
He had crossed the wire between pulses, when the electricity wasn't moving through the wire, and the pulse hit him halfway through the word happy.
Later I would come to know a great deal about electrical things. I would understand that water is an
excellent conductor of electrical energy but that urine, with its higher mineral content, is even better and what Harris did amounted to hooking a copper wire from his business to the electric fence.
The results were immediate, and everything I would have hoped for from a standpoint of scientific observation, not to mention revenge.
In a massive galvanic reaction every muscle in Harris's body convulsively contracted, jerking like a giant spring had tightened
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