The Room by Hubert Selby Jr. Page B

get them.
    Fuckem, the rotten pricks.
    His fists were clenched and his nostrils flared. He could hear the grinding of his teeth. He stood for a second, shook his head, then walked to the mirror. He stared into the mirror for many minutes until he felt his body relax. His finger patted the pimple and toyed with it, teased it, then he nodded and walked back to his bed. He sat on the edge and stared at the wall. The wall slowly moved back. He smiled and nodded again. I/ll just bide my time. Theres plenty of time to get those pricks. And when I do I/ll getem good. The longer I wait the better itll be. O, you bet your sweet ass its going to be good.
    He stretched out on the bed, hands behind his head, and let the overhead light penetrate his eyelids. He could feel the light on his eyes and now and then he would open them for a second and look at the light and when they started to water and smart he closed them and smiled. The water from his eyes felt cool and smooth as it gentled itself down his cheek. He squeezed his eyes tight until it was as dark as possible then opened them suddenly and let the light slash into them and scrape them with heat then closed them and felt the caress of the water on his cheek. He played the game over and over until his eyes started to pain and then he just closed them and relaxed, flowing deeper and deeper into himself and the comfort of the future as the pain slowly subsided. The bed was soft. The breeze cool and gentle. The moonlight peaceful. He flowed deeper and deeper into himself, wrapped in the comforting strength of hate.
    It didnt take too long to train the dogs. At least it didnt seem to take very long. Actually he wasnt certain how long it took, but it seemed like a short time because he enjoyed it so much. Especially forcing them to sit still, absolutely still without so much as a twinge or a whimper, as he pinned their badges to their noses. Of course it took quite a while, now that he thought about it, to get the palms of their hands and their knees calloused and hardened. God, what a supreme joy that was. To watch them crawl on all fours over gravel and broken glass and then when their palms were hardened so they could plod along as rapidly as possible the callouses were peeled off and they had to start all over again.
    And the races on the cinder path chasing a mechanical bitch and a spotlight following them around the small track, their naked bodies shining in deep-dimensional relief and every time they passed the small box their families were sitting in – every living member of their families jammed together as tightly as possible – they stopped and assumed their begging positions and barked and then he would whip them on their bloodied and bared asses and the race would start again. And sometimes he would trot after them whipping them, laughing, and urging them on and sometimes he would declare a rest period and they stayed on all fours, their heads hanging, their tongues hanging, and he could see the pain as they struggled for breath, their chests constricted with unbelievable pain, and he would rub salt and vinegar into the slashes on their asses and into their bloodied hands and knees and then the race would resume with the lashing of his whip and they would once again race around the cinder track until they fell from exhaustion and were dragged to theirkennels, unable even to whimper as their skin, from the tops of their heads to the tips of their toes, was ripped, scratched, burned and torn by the cinders, gravel, the glass and concrete they were dragged over and through.
    And every day, or quite often many times a day, he would inspect their fingernails and their toenails. He would start with the fingernails, saving the toenails for last, squeezing them with a pair of pliers and rapping them with the butt end of his whip. And he measured them carefully, making notes in his little black book, to see how much further down they were worn. Sometimes he couldnt inspect them,