The Kill-Off by Jim Thompson Page B

intended—about letting me know it.
    I sat facing her bed, my head bowed against the sun, staring down into the sunken hummock. The grass rustled restlessly, whispering in the wind; and after a time there was a dry, snorting chuckle.
    â€œWell?” Grandma said. “Penny for your thoughts.”
    â€œNow, that—” I forced a smile. “Now, that is the sort of thing that brings on inflation.”
    Grandma snickered. She asked me how I was getting along with my book.
    I said fine, that, in fact, I had finished it.
    â€œWell, let’s hear some of it,” Grandma said. “Start right with the beginning.”
    â€œCertainly, Grandma,” I said. “Certainly…‘Once upon a time, there were two billion and a half bastards who lived in a jungle, which weighed approximately six sextillion, four hundred and fifty quintillion short tons. Though they were all brothers, these bastards, their sole occupation was fratricide. Though the jungle abounded in wondrous fruits, their sole food was dirt. Though their potential for knowledge was unlimited, they knew but one thing. And what they knew was only what they did not know. And what they did not know was what was enough.’”
    I stopped speaking.
    Grandma stirred impatiently. “Well, go on.”
    â€œThat’s all there is,” I said.
    â€œBut I thought you said you’d finished. That’s no more than you had before.”
    â€œIt’s all there is,” I repeated. “As I see it, there is nothing more to say.”
    We were silent for a time. Without talk to divert me, my hangover began to return, crept slowly up through my body and over my head. Shaking me, sickening me, gnawing at me inside and out like some hateful and invisible reptile.
    Grandma snickered sympathetically. “Pretty sick, aren’t you?”
    â€œA little,” I said. “Something I took internally seems to have disagreed with me. Or, I should say—in all fairness—I disagreed with it. It was entirely friendly and tractable until I removed it from the bottle.”
    â€œYou know what to do about it,” Grandma said. “You know what you’ve got to do.”
    â€œI don’t know whether I can make it,” I said. “Rather, I have a strong suspicion that I can’t make it.”
    â€œYou’ve got to,” Grandma said, “so stop wasting good breath. Stop talking and start moving.”
    I groaned piteously, making futile motions of arising. The flesh was willing, but also weak. And as for spirit, I had none whatsoever.
    â€œVerily, Grandma,” I moaned. “Verily, verily. I would swap my soul to Satan for one good drink.”
    â€œCheapskate,” said Grandma. “Now, cut out the gab and get on your way.”
    I nodded miserably. Somehow, I managed to get to my feet. “I shall do as you say, Grandma,” I said.
    Grandma made no reply. Presumably she had returned to her well-earned sleep.
    I turned and tried to tiptoe away from her. I lost my balance and fell flat on my face, and minutes passed before I could pick myself up again. Finally, after several similar fallings and pickings-up, I reached the road to town.
    A truck was coming from the opposite direction. It looked like Joe Henderson’s, and it was. I swung an arm, limply, thumb upraised, in the gesture as old as hitchhiking. Joe slowed down, and came to a stop. Then, as I reached for the door, he jabbed one finger into the air, and roared away.
    I walked on, more strengthened, more firm in my purpose than otherwise. I wondered what loss Joe could suffer that could not be recouped by insurance, and I decided that the tires of his truck would be a very good bet.
    Another farm truck drove up behind me—Dutch Eaton’s. Dutch stopped and leaned out, asked me solicitously if I was tired of walking.
    â€œYes,” I said, “but please spare me the suggestion that I run a while. It was not