once.
He ran a hand along one wall. The peeling paint came off like cornflakes.
Nothing could be worse than the living and dining rooms, yet the kitchen was. A jar of peanut butter had crashed to the floor; someone had gotten a running start, jumped into it, and skied a brown, one-footed track to the stove. On the table were what appeared to be the remains of an autopsy performed upon a large bird, possibly a crow. The refrigerator contained two food groups: mustard and beer. The raisins here were even more abundant. He spotted several of them moving. They weren't raisins; they were roaches.
The front door opened, and seconds later a man clomped into the kitchen. He wore no winter jacket, only a sleeveless green sweatshirt, which ballooned over his enormous stomach. Tattoos blued his upper arms. His hands were nearly pure black. Stale body odor mingled with that of fries and burgers coming from the Burger King bag he held. Dropping the bag next to the bird remains, he bellowed "Chow!" and took a beer from the fridge; he downed a good half of it in one swig, belched, doubled-clutched, and belched again. He had to know someone besides himself was standing in the kitchen, and, just as obviously, he didn't care.
Two floor-quaking crashes came from the dining room --- "Geronimo!"... "Geronimo!" Russell and Piper had taken the direct route via the hole. "Wha'd ya bring, Dad? Whoppers? Yeah - Whoppers!"
They tore into the bag like jackals into carrion. Plastic flew, fries flew. They both wanted the same Whopper. Mashed between their tugging fists, the Whopper splurted sauce and cheese and pickle chips; then it split. Russell lurched backward into the kitchen table with his half; Piper lurched backward in the opposite direction, and with nothing to stop him, sailed right through the cellar doorway and down the cellar steps. The final thud was followed by the truckhorn blast of Piper's laughter.
When Giant John ambled in, the father said, "Get the blocks?"
"No," grunted John, pulling out a pair of Whoppers. He tossed one to Maniac.
"We need more," growled the father. John didn't answer. "We need more."
"I heard."
McNab smashed the tabletop; three fries and a bird wing jumped to the floor. "Now!"
John walked out, nonchalantly munching. "I was busy."
The rest of the night was scenes from a loony movie.
Scene: McNab the father swaggers bare-armed out the front door, bellowing back, "Do yer homework!"
Scene: Maniac retrieves the wet newspaper from the living room. There are no wastebaskets in the house. He finds a trash can in the backyard, next to a pile of cinder blocks. He dumps the soggy papers in the can, which is empty.
Scene: Small turds of an unfamiliar shape appear here and there along the baseboards of the first floor. Please don't be rats, Maniac prays.
Scene: The Cobras come in. They glare at Maniac, but Giant John tells them to lay off. They raid the fridge for beer. They smoke cigarettes. They belch and fart. They curse. Russell and Piper, kiddie Cobras, pop their own beer cans, guzzle, swagger, belch, smoke, curse.
Scene: Football game, from the front of the living room to the back of the dining room. Except for space, it has everything a regular game has --- running, passing, blocking, tackling, kicking. There is little furniture to get in the way. Ordinarily, the windows wouldn't last five minutes, but the windows of this house are boarded up with plywood. Body-blocked Cobras fly into the walls. The house flinches.
Scene: A faint rustling noise behind the stove. Oh, no, rats! Maniac dares to look. It's a turtle, box turtle, munching on old Whopper lettuce. Whew!
Scene: The boys' bedroom. Russell and Piper lie prone at the hole. They fire toy submachine guns --- tata-tata-tata-tata --- at the Cobras heading out the front door. Piper jumps up and blows Maniac away, killing him at least fifteen times. "This is how we're gonna do it! Bam-bam-bam!"
"The guns'll be real," says Russell, still prone and firing,
He ran a hand along one wall. The peeling paint came off like cornflakes.
Nothing could be worse than the living and dining rooms, yet the kitchen was. A jar of peanut butter had crashed to the floor; someone had gotten a running start, jumped into it, and skied a brown, one-footed track to the stove. On the table were what appeared to be the remains of an autopsy performed upon a large bird, possibly a crow. The refrigerator contained two food groups: mustard and beer. The raisins here were even more abundant. He spotted several of them moving. They weren't raisins; they were roaches.
The front door opened, and seconds later a man clomped into the kitchen. He wore no winter jacket, only a sleeveless green sweatshirt, which ballooned over his enormous stomach. Tattoos blued his upper arms. His hands were nearly pure black. Stale body odor mingled with that of fries and burgers coming from the Burger King bag he held. Dropping the bag next to the bird remains, he bellowed "Chow!" and took a beer from the fridge; he downed a good half of it in one swig, belched, doubled-clutched, and belched again. He had to know someone besides himself was standing in the kitchen, and, just as obviously, he didn't care.
Two floor-quaking crashes came from the dining room --- "Geronimo!"... "Geronimo!" Russell and Piper had taken the direct route via the hole. "Wha'd ya bring, Dad? Whoppers? Yeah - Whoppers!"
They tore into the bag like jackals into carrion. Plastic flew, fries flew. They both wanted the same Whopper. Mashed between their tugging fists, the Whopper splurted sauce and cheese and pickle chips; then it split. Russell lurched backward into the kitchen table with his half; Piper lurched backward in the opposite direction, and with nothing to stop him, sailed right through the cellar doorway and down the cellar steps. The final thud was followed by the truckhorn blast of Piper's laughter.
When Giant John ambled in, the father said, "Get the blocks?"
"No," grunted John, pulling out a pair of Whoppers. He tossed one to Maniac.
"We need more," growled the father. John didn't answer. "We need more."
"I heard."
McNab smashed the tabletop; three fries and a bird wing jumped to the floor. "Now!"
John walked out, nonchalantly munching. "I was busy."
The rest of the night was scenes from a loony movie.
Scene: McNab the father swaggers bare-armed out the front door, bellowing back, "Do yer homework!"
Scene: Maniac retrieves the wet newspaper from the living room. There are no wastebaskets in the house. He finds a trash can in the backyard, next to a pile of cinder blocks. He dumps the soggy papers in the can, which is empty.
Scene: Small turds of an unfamiliar shape appear here and there along the baseboards of the first floor. Please don't be rats, Maniac prays.
Scene: The Cobras come in. They glare at Maniac, but Giant John tells them to lay off. They raid the fridge for beer. They smoke cigarettes. They belch and fart. They curse. Russell and Piper, kiddie Cobras, pop their own beer cans, guzzle, swagger, belch, smoke, curse.
Scene: Football game, from the front of the living room to the back of the dining room. Except for space, it has everything a regular game has --- running, passing, blocking, tackling, kicking. There is little furniture to get in the way. Ordinarily, the windows wouldn't last five minutes, but the windows of this house are boarded up with plywood. Body-blocked Cobras fly into the walls. The house flinches.
Scene: A faint rustling noise behind the stove. Oh, no, rats! Maniac dares to look. It's a turtle, box turtle, munching on old Whopper lettuce. Whew!
Scene: The boys' bedroom. Russell and Piper lie prone at the hole. They fire toy submachine guns --- tata-tata-tata-tata --- at the Cobras heading out the front door. Piper jumps up and blows Maniac away, killing him at least fifteen times. "This is how we're gonna do it! Bam-bam-bam!"
"The guns'll be real," says Russell, still prone and firing,
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