Da Shinin

''"Any big hotels have got scandals," said some random person, probably on the sticky-icky-ickys, said. "Just like every big hotel has got a ghost. Why the fuck not? Hell, people come n' git."''

Chapta 1. Thang Interview
Jack Torrizzle thought: Officious lil prick.

Ullman stood five-five, n' when he moved, dat shiznit was wit tha prissy speed dat seems ta be tha exclusive domain of all lil' small-ass plump men. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da part up in his afro was exact, n' his fuckin lil' dark suit was sober but comforting. I be a playa you can brang yo' problems to, dat suit holla'd ta tha payin hustla n' shit. To tha hired help it was rappin mo' curtly: This had betta be good, you, biatch. There was a red carnation up in tha lapel, like so dat no one on tha street would fuck up Stuart Ullman fo' tha local undertaker.

As he listened ta Ullman speak, Jack admitted ta his dirty ass dat he probably could not have was horny bout any playa on dat side of tha desk-under tha circumstances.

Ullman had axed a question dat schmoooove muthafucka hadn't caught. That was bad; Ullman was tha type of playa whoz ass would file such lapses away up in a menstrual Rolodex fo' lata consideration.

"I'm sorry?"

"I axed if yo' hoe straight-up understood what tha fuck you would be takin on here, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho fo' realz. And there's yo' son, of course." Dude glanced down all up in tha application up in front of his muthafuckin ass. "Daniel. Yo crazy-ass hoe isn't a lil' bit intimidated by tha idea?"

"Wendy be a extraordinary biatch."

"And yo' lil hustla be also extraordinary?"

Jack smiled, a funky-ass big-ass wide PR smile. "We like ta be thinkin so, I suppose yo. He's like self-reliant fo' a gangbangin' five-year-old."

No returnin smile from Ullman. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude slipped Jack's application back tha fuck into tha file. Da file went tha fuck into a thugged-out drawer n' shit. Da desk top was now straight-up bare except fo' a funky-ass blotter, a telephone, a Tensor lamp, n' a in/out basket. Both sidez of tha in/out was empty, like a muthafucka.

Ullman stood up n' went ta tha file cabinet up in tha corner n' shit. "Step round tha desk, if you will, Mista Muthafuckin Torrance. We'll peep tha floor plans."

Dude brought back five big-ass sheets n' set dem down on tha glossy walnut plain of tha desk. Jack stood by his shoulder, straight-up much aware of tha scent of Ullman's cologne fo' realz. All mah pimps wear Gangsta Leather or they wear not a god damn thang at all came tha fuck into his crazy-ass mind fo' no reason at all, n' dat schmoooove muthafucka had ta clamp his cold-ass tongue between his cold-ass teeth ta keep up in a funky-ass bray of laughter n' shit. Beyond tha wall, faintly, came tha soundz of tha Overlook Hotel's kitchen, gearin down from lunch.

"Top floor," Ullman holla'd briskly. "Da attic fo' realz. Absolutely not a god damn thang up there now but bric-a-brac. Da Overlook has chizzled handz nuff muthafuckin times since Ghetto Battle Pt II n' it seems dat each successive manager has put every last muthafuckin thang they don't want up in tha attic. I want rattraps n' poison bait sowed round up in dat shit. Some of tha third-floor chambermaidz say they have heard rustlin noises. I don't believe it, not fo' a moment yo, but there mustn't even be dat one-in-a-hundred chizzle dat a single rat inhabits tha Overlook Hotel."

Jack, whoz ass suspected dat every last muthafuckin hotel up in tha ghetto had a rat or two, held his cold-ass tongue.

"Of course you wouldn't allow yo' lil hustla up in tha attic under any circumstances."

"No," Jack holla'd, n' flashed tha big-ass PR smile again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Humiliatin thang. Did dis officious lil prick straight-up be thinkin da thug would allow his fuckin lil hustla ta goof round up in a rattrap attic full of junk furniture n' Dogg knew what tha fuck else?

Ullman whisked away tha attic floor plan n' put it on tha bottom of tha pile.

"Da Overlook has one hundred n' ten hommie quarters," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd up in a scholarly voice. "Thirty of them, all suites, is here on tha third floor. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Ten up in tha westside win (includin tha OG Presidental Suite), ten up in tha center, ten mo' up in tha eastside win fo' realz. All of dem command magnificent views."

Could you at least spare tha salestalk?

But he kept on tha fuckin' down-low yo. Dude needed tha thang.

Ullman put tha third floor on tha bottom of tha pile n' they studied tha second floor.

"Forty rooms," Ullman holla'd, "thirty doublez n' ten singlez fo' realz. And on tha straight-up original gangsta floor, twenty of each. Plus three linen closets on each floor, n' a storeroom which be all up in tha off tha hook eastside end of tha hotel on tha second floor n' tha off tha hook westside end on tha first. Questions?"

Jack shook his head. Ullman whisked tha second n' first floors away.

"Now. Lobby level: Here up in tha centa is tha registration desk. Behind it is tha offices. Da lobby runs fo' eighty feet up in either direction from tha desk. Over here up in tha westside win is tha Overlook Dinin Room n' tha Colorado Lounge. Da banquet n' ballroom facilitizzle is up in tha eastside wing. Questions?"

"Only bout tha basement," Jack holla'd. "For tha winta caretaker, that's da most thugged-out blingin level of all. Where tha action is, so ta speak."

"Watson will show you all dis shit. Da basement floor plan is on tha boila room wall." Dude frowned impressively, like ta show dat as manager, da ruffneck did not concern his dirty ass wit such mundane aspectz of tha Overlook's operation as tha boila n' tha plumbing. "Might not be a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shitty-ass scam ta put some traps down there like a muthafucka. Just a minute..."

Dude scrawled a note on a pad tha pimpin' muthafucka took from his crazy-ass muthafuckin inner coat pocket (each shizzle bore tha legend From tha Desk of Stuart Ullman up in bold black script), tore it off, n' dropped it tha fuck into tha up basket. Well shiiiit, it sat there lookin lonesome. Da pad disappeared back tha fuck into Ullman's jacket pocket like tha conclusion of a magician's trick. Now you peep it, Jacky-boy, now you don't. This muthafucka be a real heavyweight.

They had resumed they original gangsta positions, Ullman behind tha desk n' Jack up in front of it, rap battleer n' rap battleee, supplicant n' reluctant patron. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Ullman folded his neat lil handz on tha desk blotta n' looked directly at Jack, a small, baldin playa up in a funky-ass banker's suit n' a on tha down-low gray tie. Da flower up in his fuckin lapel was balanced off by a lil' small-ass lapel pin on tha other side. Well shiiiit, it read simply STAFF up in lil' small-ass gold letters.

"I'll be perfectly frank wit you, Mista Muthafuckin Torrizzle fo' realz. Albert Shockley be a bangin playa wit a big-ass interest up in tha Overlook, which flossed a profit dis season fo' tha last time up in its history. Mista Muthafuckin Shockley also sits on tha Board of Directors yo, but he aint a hotel playa n' da thug would be tha straight-up original gangsta ta admit all dis bullshit. But dat schmoooove muthafucka has made his wishes up in dis caretakin matta like obvious yo. Dude wants you hired. I'ma do so. But if I had been given a gangbangin' free hand up in dis matter, I would not have taken you on."

Jack's handz was clenched tightly up in his fuckin lap, hustlin against each other, sweating. Officious lil prick, officious

"I don't believe you care much fo' me, Mista Muthafuckin Torrance. I lil prick, officious- don't care. Certainly yo' vibe toward mah crazy ass play no part up in mah own belief dat yo ass aint right fo' tha thang. Durin tha season dat runs from May fifteenth ta September thirtieth, tha Overlook employs one hundred n' ten playas full-time; one fo' every last muthafuckin room up in tha hotel, you might say. I don't be thinkin nuff of dem like me n' I suspect dat a shitload of dem be thinkin I'm a lil' bit of a funky-ass bastard. They would be erect up in they judgment of mah character n' shit. I gotta be a lil' bit of a funky-ass bastard ta run dis hotel up in tha manner it deserves."

Dude looked at Jack fo' comment, n' Jack flashed tha PR smile again, big-ass n' insultingly toothy.

Ullman holla'd: "Da Overlook was built up in tha muthafuckin years 1907 ta 1909. Da closest hood is Sidewinder, forty milez eastside of here over roadz dat is closed from sometime up in late October or November until sometime up in April fo' realz. A playa named Robert Hoodley Watson built it, tha grandfather of our present maintenizzle man. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Vanderbilts have stayed here, n' Rockefellers, n' Astors, n' Du Pouts, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. Four Presidents have stayed up in tha Presidential Suite. Wilson, Harding, Roosevelt, n' Nixon."

"I wouldn't be too proud as a muthafucka of Hardin n' Nixon," Jack murmured.

Ullman frowned but went on regardless. "It proved too much fo' Mista Muthafuckin Watson, n' da perved-out muthafucka sold tha hotel up in 1915. Dat shiznit was sold again n' again n' again up in 1922, up in 1929, up in 1936. Well shiiiit, it stood vacant until tha end of Ghetto Battle Pt II, when dat shiznit was purchased n' straight-up renovated by Horace Derwent, millionaire inventor, pilot, film baller, n' entrepreneur."

"I know tha name," Jack holla'd.

"Yes yes y'all. Everythang tha pimpin' muthafucka touched seemed ta turn ta gold... except tha Overlook yo. Dude funneled over a mazillion dollars tha fuck into it before tha straight-up original gangsta postwar hommie eva stepped all up in its doors, turnin a thugged-out decrepit relic tha fuck into a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass showplace. Dat shiznit was Derwent whoz ass added tha roque court I saw you admirin when you arrived."

"Roque?"

"A British forebear of our croquet, Mista Muthafuckin Torrance. Croquet is bastardized roque fo' realz. Accordin ta legend, Derwent hustled tha game from his hood secretary n' fell tha fuck straight-up up in ludd wit dat shit. Ours may be tha finest roque court up in America."

"I wouldn't doubt it," Jack holla'd gravely fo' realz. A roque court, a topiary full of hedge muthafuckas up front, what tha fuck next, biatch? A game-sized Uncle Wiggly game behind tha shiznit shed, biatch? Dude was gettin straight-up pissed wit Mista Muthafuckin Stuart Ullman yo, but his schmoooove ass could peep dat Ullman wasn't done. Ullman was goin ta have his say, every last muthafuckin last word of dat shit.

"When dat schmoooove muthafucka had lost three million, Derwent sold it ta a crew of California investors. Their experience wit tha Overlook was equally bad. Just not hotel people.

"In 1970, Mista Muthafuckin Shockley n' a crew of his thugged-out associates looted tha hotel n' turned its pimpment over ta mah dirty ass. Our thugged-out asses have also run up in tha red fo' nuff muthafuckin muthafuckin years yo, but I'm aiiight ta say dat tha trust of tha present ballaz up in me has never wavered. Last year we broke even. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. And dis year tha Overlook's accounts was freestyled up in black ink fo' tha last time up in almost seven decades."

Jack supposed dat dis fussy lil dudez pride was justified, n' then his original gangsta dislike washed over his ass again n' again n' again up in a wave.

Dude holla'd: "I peep no connection between tha Overlook's admittedly colorful history n' yo' feelin dat I'm wack fo' tha post, Mista Muthafuckin Ullman."

"One reason dat tha Overlook has lost so much scrilla lies up in tha depreciation dat occurs each winter n' shit. Well shiiiit, it shortens tha profit margin a pimped out deal mo' than you might believe, Mista Muthafuckin Torrance. Da wintas is dunkadelically wack. In order ta cope wit tha problem, I've installed a gangbangin' full-time winta caretaker ta run tha boila n' ta heat different partz of tha hotel on a thugged-out everyday rotatin basis. To repair breakage as it occurs n' ta do repairs, so tha elements can't git a gangbangin' foothold. To be constantly alert ta any n' every last muthafuckin contingency. Durin our first winta I hired a cold-ass lil crew instead of a single man. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. There was a gangbangin' fuck up fo' realz. A wack fuck up."

Ullman looked at Jack coolly n' appraisingly.

"I done cooked up a mistake. I admit it freely. Da playa was a thugged-out faded."

Jack felt a slow, bangin' grin-the total antithesiz of tha toothy PR grin- stretch across his crazy-ass grill. "Is dat it, biatch? I'm surprised Al didn't rap, biatch. I've retired."

"Yes, Mista Muthafuckin Shockley holla'd at mah crazy ass you no longer drink yo. Dude also holla'd at mah crazy ass bout yo' last thang... yo' last posizzle of trust, shall we say, biatch? Yo ass was teachin Gangsta up in a Vermont prep school. Yo ass lost yo' temper, I don't believe I need ta be any mo' specific than dis shit. But I do happen ta believe dat Grady's case has a funky-ass bearing, n' dat is why I have brought tha matta of your... uh, previous history tha fuck into tha conversation. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Durin tha winta of 1970-71, afta our crazy asses had refurbished tha Overlook but before our first season, I hired this... dis fucked up named Delbert Grady yo. Dude moved tha fuck into tha quartas you n' yo' hoe n' lil hustla is ghon be sharin yo. Dude had a hoe n' two daughters. I had reservations, tha main ones bein tha harshnizz of tha winta season n' tha fact dat tha Gradys would be cut off from tha outside ghetto fo' five ta six months."

"But that's not straight-up true, is it, biatch? There is telephones here, n' probably a cold-ass lil playa hater's crew radio as well fo' realz. And tha Rocky Mountain Nationizzle Park is within helicopta range n' surely a piece of ground dat big-ass must gotz a cold-ass lil chopper or two."

"I wouldn't know bout that," Ullman holla'd. "Da hotel do gotz a two-way radio dat Mista Muthafuckin Watson will show you, along wit a list of tha erect frequencies ta broadcast on if you need help. Da telephone lines between here n' Sidewinder is still aboveground, n' they go down almost every last muthafuckin winta at some point or other n' is apt ta stay down fo' three weeks ta a month n' a half. There be a snowmobile up in tha shiznit shed also."

"Then tha place straight-up isn't cut off."

Mista Muthafuckin Ullman looked pained. "Suppose yo' lil hustla or yo' hoe tripped on tha stairs n' fractured his or her skull, Mista Muthafuckin Torrance. Would you be thinkin tha place was cut off then?"

Jack saw tha point fo' realz. A snowmobile hustlin at top speed could git you down ta Sidewinder up in a minute n' a half... maybe fo' realz. A helicopta from tha Parks Rescue Service could git up here up in three hours... under optimum conditions. In a funky-ass blizzard it would never even be able ta lift off n' you couldn't hope ta run a snowmobile at top speed, even if you dared take a seriously fucked up thug up tha fuck into temperatures dat might be twenty-five below-or forty-five below, if you added up in tha wind chill factor.

"In tha case of Grady," Ullman holla'd, "I reasoned much as Mista Muthafuckin Shockley seems ta have done up in yo' case. Solitude can be damagin up in itself. Betta fo' tha playa ta have his crew wit his muthafuckin ass. If there was shit, I thought, tha oddz was straight-up high dat it would be suttin' less urgent than a gangbangin' fractured skull or a accident wit one of tha juice tools or some sort of convulsion. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. A straight-up case of tha flu, pneumonia, a gangbangin' fucked up arm, even appendicitis fo' realz. Any of dem thangs would have left enough time.

"I suspect dat what tha fuck happened came as a result of too much skanky whiskey, of which Grady had laid up in a generous supply, unbeknownst ta me, n' a cold-ass lil curious condizzle which tha old-timers call cabin fever n' shit. Do you know tha term?" Ullman offered a patronizin lil smile, locked n loaded ta explain as soon as Jack admitted his crazy-ass muthafuckin ignorance, n' Jack was aiiight ta respond quickly n' crisply.

"It's a slang term fo' tha claustrophobic erection dat can occur when playas is shut up in together over long periodz of time. Da feelin of claustrophobia is externalized as dislike fo' tha playas you happen ta be shut up in with. In off tha hook cases it can result up in hallucinations n' shit-cappin' has been done over such minor thangs as a funky-ass burned meal or a argument bout whose turn it is ta do tha dishes."

Ullman looked rather nonplussed, which did Jack a ghetto of good. I be fly as a gangbangin' falcon, soarin all up in tha sky dawwwwg! Dude decided ta press a lil further yo, but silently promised Wendy da thug would stay cool.

"I suspect you did cook up a gangbangin' fuck up at dis shit. Did dat schmoooove muthafucka hurt them?"

"Dude capped them, Mista Muthafuckin Torrance, n' then committed suicizzle yo. Dude murdered tha lil hoes wit a hatchet, his hoe wit a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shotgun, n' his dirty ass tha same way yo. His leg was broken. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Undoubtedly so faded he fell tha fuck downstairs."

Ullman spread his handz n' looked at Jack self-righteously.

"Was he a high school graduate?"

"As a matta of fact, da thug wasn't," Ullman holla'd a lil stiffly. "I thought a, shall we say, less imaginatizzle individual would be less susceptible ta tha rigors, tha loneliness-"

"That was yo' mistake," Jack holla'd. "A wack playa is mo' prone ta cabin fever just as he's mo' prone ta blast one of mah thugs over a cold-ass lil card game or commit a spur-ofthe-moment robbery yo. Dude gets bored. When tha snow comes, there's not a god damn thang ta do but peep TV or play solitaire n' cheat when his schmoooove ass can't git all tha aces out. Nothang ta do but biiiatch at his hoe n' nag all up in tha lil playas n' drink. Well shiiiit, it gets hard ta chill cuz there's not a god damn thang ta hear. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. So da ruffneck dranks his dirty ass ta chill n' wakes up wit a hangover n' shiznit yo. Dude gets edgy fo' realz. And maybe tha telephone goes up n' tha TV aerial blows down n' there's not a god damn thang ta do but be thinkin n' cheat at solitaire n' git edgier n' edgier n' shit. Finally... boom, boom, boom."

"Whereas a mo' constipated dude, like fuckin yo ass?"

"My fuckin hoe n' I both like ta read. I gots a play ta work on, as Al Shockley probably holla'd at you, biatch. Danny has his thugged-out lil' puzzles, his colorin books, n' his crystal radio. I plan ta teach his ass ta read, n' I also wanna teach his ass ta snowshoe. Wendy wanna learn how, like a muthafucka. Oh fo'sho, I be thinkin we can keep busy n' outta each other's afro if tha TV goes on tha fritz." Dude paused. "And Al was spittin some lyrics ta tha real deal when tha pimpin' muthafucka holla'd at you I no longer drink. I did once, n' it gots ta be straight-up n shit. But I haven't had so much as a glass of brew up in tha last fourteen months. I don't intend ta brang any brew up here, n' I don't be thinkin there is ghon be a opportunitizzle ta git arty afta tha snow flies."

"In dat you would be like erect," Ullman holla'd. "But as long as tha three of yo ass is up here, tha potential fo' problems is multiplied. I have holla'd at Mista Muthafuckin Shockley this, n' tha pimpin' muthafucka holla'd at mah crazy ass da thug would take tha responsibility. Now I've holla'd at you, n' apparently yo ass be also willin ta take tha responsibility-"

"I am."

"All right. I'll accept that, since I have lil chizzle. But I would still rather have a unattached college pimp takin a year off. Well, like you'll do. Now I'll turn you over ta Mista Muthafuckin Watson, whoz ass will take you all up in tha basement n' round tha grounds. Unless you have further thangs?"

"No. None at all."

Ullman stood. I be fly as a gangbangin' falcon, soarin all up in tha sky dawwwwg! "I hope there be no hard vibe, Mista Muthafuckin Torrance. There aint a god damn thang underground up in tha thangs I have holla'd ta you, biatch. I only want what's dopest fo' tha Overlook. Well shiiiit, it aint nuthin but a pimped out hotel. I want it ta stay dat way."

"No. No hard vibe." Jack flashed tha PR grin again yo, but da thug was glad Ullman didn't offer ta shake hands. There was hard vibe fo' realz. All kindz of dem wild-ass muthafuckas.

Chapta 2. Boulder
Some stupid-ass bitch looked up tha kitchen window n' saw his ass just chillin there on tha curb, not playin wit his cold-ass trucks or tha wagon or even tha balsa glider dat had pleased his ass so much all tha last week since Jack had brought it home yo. Dude was just chillin there, watchin fo' they shopworn VW, his wild lil' fuckin elbows planted on his wild lil' fat-ass thighs n' his chin propped up in his hands, a gangbangin' five-yearold kid waitin fo' his fuckin lil' daddy.

Wendy suddenly felt bad, almost bustin up like a biatch bad.

She hung tha dish towel over tha bar by tha sink n' went downstairs yo, buttonin tha top two buttonz of her doggy den dress. Jack n' his thugged-out lil' pride biaaatch! Yo no, Al, I don't need a advance. I'm aiiight fo' a while. Da hallway walls was gouged n' marked wit crayons, grease pencil, spray paint. Da stairs was steep n' splintery. Da whole buildin smelled of sour age, n' what tha fuck sort of place was dis fo' Danny afta tha lil' small-ass neat brick doggy den up in Stovington, biatch? Da playas livin above dem on tha third floor weren't married, n' while dat didn't bother her, they constant, rancorous fightin done did. Well shiiiit, it scared her n' shit. Da muthafucka up there was Tom, n' afta tha bars had closed n' they had returned home, tha fights would start up in earnest-the rest of tha week was just a prelim up in comparison. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da Fridizzle Night Fights, Jack called dem yo, but it wasn't funky. Da biatch-her name was Elaine-would at last be reduced ta tears n' ta repeatin over n' over again: "Don't, Tom. Please don't. Please don't." And da thug would shout at her n' shit. Once they had even awakened Danny, n' Danny slept like a cold-ass lil corpse. Da next mornin Jack caught Tomothy goin up n' had spoken ta his ass on tha sidewalk at some length. Tomothy started ta blusta n' Jack had holla'd suttin' else ta him, too on tha fuckin' down-lowly fo' Wendy ta hear, n' Tomothy had only shaken his head sullenly n' strutted away. That had been a week ago n' fo' all dem minutes thangs had been mo' betta yo, but since tha weekend thangs had been hustlin back ta normal-excuse me, abnormal. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack. Dat shiznit was shitty fo' tha boy.

Her sense of grief washed over her again n' again n' again but dat biiiiatch was on tha strutt now n' her big-ass booty smothered dat shit. Sweepin her dress under her n' chillin down on tha curb beside him, her big-ass booty holla'd: "What's up, doc?"

Dude smiled at her but dat shiznit was perfunctory. "Yea muthafucka, Mom."

Da glider was between his sneakered feet, n' her big-ass booty saw dat one of tha wings had started ta splinter.

"Want me ta peep what tha fuck I can do wit that, honey?"

Danny had gone back ta starin up tha street. "No. Dad will fix dat shit."

"Yo crazy-ass daddy may not be back until suppertime, doc. It's a long-ass drive up tha fuck into dem mountains."

"Do you be thinkin tha bug will break down?"

"Fuck dat shit, I don't be thinkin so." But dat schmoooove muthafucka had just given her suttin' freshly smoked up ta worry about. Thanks, Danny. I needed all dis bullshit.

"Dad holla'd it might," Danny holla'd up in a matter-of-fact, almost bugged out manner n' shit. "Dude holla'd tha gin n juice pump was all blasted ta shit."

"Don't say that, Danny."

"Gin N Juice pump?" he axed her wit real surprise.

Bitch sighed. "Fuck dat shit, `All blasted ta shit. ' Don't say that."

"Why?"

"It's vulgar."

"What's vulgar, Mom?"

"Like when you pick yo' nozzle all up in tha table or pizzle wit tha bathroom door open. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Or sayin thangs like `All blasted ta shit. ' Shiznit be a vulgar word. Sick playas don't say dat shit."

"Dad say dat shit. When da thug was lookin all up in tha bugmotor be holla'd, `Christ dis gin n juice pump's all blasted ta sbit. ' Isn't Dad sick?"

How tha fuck do you git tha fuck into these thangs, Winnifred, biatch? Do you practice?

"He's sick yo, but he's also a grown-up fo' realz. And he's straight-up careful not ta say thangs like dat up in front of playas whoz ass wouldn't understand."

"Yo ass mean like Uncle AI?"

"Yes, that's right."

"Can I say it when I'm grown-up?"

"I suppose you will, whether I wanna bust a nut on it or not."

"How tha fuck old?"

"How tha fuck do twenty sound, doc?"

"That's a long-ass time ta gotta wait."

"I guess it is yo, but will you try?"

"Hokay."

Dude went back ta starin up tha street yo. Dude flexed a lil, as if ta rise yo, but tha beetle comin was much newer, n' much brighta red. Dude chillaxed again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Biatch wondered just how tha fuck hard dis move ta Colorado had been on Danny yo. Dude was closemouthed bout it yo, but it bothered her ta peep his ass bustin so much time by his dirty ass. In Vermont three of Jack's fellow faculty thugz had had lil pimps bout Danny's age-and there shitty been tha preschool-but up in dis hood there was no one fo' his ass ta play with. Most of tha cribs was occupied by hustlas attendin CU, n' of tha few hooked up couplez here on Arapahoe Street, only a tiny cementage had lil' thugs. Biatch had spotted like a thugged-out dozen of high school or junior high school age, three infants, n' dat was all.

"Mahy did Daddy lose his thang?"

Bitch was jolted outta her reverie n' flounderin fo' a answer n' shit. Biatch n' Jack had discussed ways they might handle just such a question from Danny, ways dat had varied from evasion ta tha plain truth wit no varnish on dat shit. But Danny had never asked. Not until now, when dat biiiiatch was feelin low n' least prepared fo' such a question. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Yet da thug was lookin at her, maybe readin tha mad drama on her grill n' formin his own scams bout dis shit. Biatch thought dat ta lil pimps adult motives n' actions must seem as bulkin n' ominous as fucked up muthafuckas peeped up in tha shadowz of a thugged-out dark forest. They was jerked bout like puppets, havin only tha vaguest notions why. Da thought brought her dangerously close ta tears again, n' while she fought dem off she leaned over, picked up tha disabled glider, n' turned it over up in her hands.

"Yo crazy-ass daddy was pimpin tha rap battle crew, Danny. Do you remember that?"

"Sure," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. "Arguments fo' fun, right?"

"Right." Biatch turned tha glider over n' over, lookin all up in tha trade name (SPEEDOGLIDE) n' tha blue star decals on tha wings, n' found her muthafuckin ass spittin some lyrics ta tha exact truth ta her son.

"There was a funky-ass pimp named George Hatfield dat Daddy had ta cut from tha crew. That means da thug wasn't as phat as a shitload of tha others. George holla'd yo' daddy cut his ass cuz da ruffneck didn't like his ass n' not cuz da thug wasn't phat enough cause I gots dem finger-lickin' chickens wit tha siz-auce. Then George did a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shitty-ass thang. I be thinkin you know bout that."

"Was tha pimpin' muthafucka tha one whoz ass put tha holez up in our bug's tires?"

"Yes, da thug was. Dat shiznit was afta school n' yo' daddy caught his ass bustin dat shit." Now dat freaky freaky biatch hesitated again yo, but there was no question of evasion now; dat shiznit was reduced ta tell tha real deal or tell a lie.

"Yo crazy-ass daddy... sometimes da ruffneck do thangs he's sorry fo' later n' shit. Sometimes da ruffneck don't be thinkin tha way da perved-out muthafucka should. That don't happen straight-up often yo, but sometimes it do."

"Did dat schmoooove muthafucka hurt George Hatfield like tha time I spilled all his thugged-out lil' papers?"

Sometimes-

(Danny wit his thugged-out arm up in a cold-ass lil cast)

Che do thangs he's sorry fo' later.

Wendy blinked her eyes savagely hard, rollin her tears all tha way back.

"Somethang like that, honey. Yo crazy-ass daddy hit George ta make his ass stop cuttin tha tires n' George hit his head. Then tha pimps whoz ass is up in charge of tha school holla'd dat George couldn't go there no mo' n' yo' daddy couldn't teach there no mo'." Biatch stopped, outta lyrics, n' waited up in dread fo' tha deluge of thangs.

"Oh," Danny holla'd, n' went back ta lookin up tha street fo' realz. Apparently tha subject was closed. If only it could be closed dat easily fo' her-

Bitch stood up. "I'm goin upstairs fo' a cold-ass lil cup of tea, doc. Want a cold-ass lil couple dem scooby snacks n' a glass of milk?"

"I be thinkin I'll peep fo' Dad."

"I don't be thinkin he'll be home much before five."

"Maybe he'll be early."

"Maybe," she agreed. "Maybe da thug will."

Bitch was halfway up tha strutt when his schmoooove ass called, "Ma?"

"What, Danny?"

"Do you wanna go n' live up in dat hotel fo' tha winter?"

Now, which of five thousand lyrics should she give ta dat one, biatch? Da way dat freaky freaky biatch had felt yesterdizzle or last night or dis morning, biatch? They was all different, they crossed tha spectrum from rosy pink ta dead black.

Bitch holla'd: "If it's what tha fuck yo' daddy wants, it's what tha fuck I want." Biatch paused. "What bout yo slick ass?"

"I guess I do," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd finally. "No Muthafucka much ta fuck wit round here."

"Yo ass miss yo' playas, don't yo slick ass?"

"Sometimes I miss Scott n' Andy. That's bout all."

Bitch went back ta his ass n' busted him, rumpled his fuckin lightcolored afro dat was just losin its baby-finenizz yo. Dude was such a solemn lil boy, n' sometimes dat biiiiatch wondered just how tha fuck da thug was supposed ta survive wit her n' Jack fo' muthafathas. Da high hopes they had begun wit came down ta dis unpleasant crib buildin up in a cold-ass lil hood they didn't know. Da image of Danny up in his cast rose up before her again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Some Muthafucka up in tha Divine Placement Service had done cooked up a mistake, one her big-ass booty sometimes feared could never be erected n' which only da most thugged-out innocent bystander could pay for.

"Stay outta tha road, doc," her big-ass booty holla'd, n' hugged his ass tight.

"Sure, Mom."

Bitch went upstairs n' tha fuck into tha kitchen. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Biatch put on tha teapot n' laid a cold-ass lil couple Oreos on a plate fo' Danny up in case da ruffneck decided ta come up while dat biiiiatch was lyin down. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Sittin all up in tha table wit her big-ass pottery cup up in front of her, she looked up tha window at him, still chillin on tha curb up in his bluejeans n' his over-sized dark chronic Stovington Prep sweatshirt, tha glider now lyin beside his muthafuckin ass. Da tears which had threatened all dizzle now came up in a cold-ass lil cloudburst n' she leaned tha fuck into tha fragrant, curlin steam of tha chronic n' wept. In grief n' loss fo' tha past, n' terror of tha future.

Chapta 3. Watson
Yo ass lost yo' temper, Ullman had holla'd.

"Okay, here's yo' furnace," Watson holla'd, turnin on a light up in tha dark, musty-smellin room yo. Dude was a funky-ass beefy playa wit fluffy popcorn hair, white shirt, n' dark chronic chinos yo. Dude swung open a lil' small-ass square gratin up in tha furnace's belly n' he n' Jack peered up in together n' shit. "This here's tha pilot light." A steady blue-white jet hissin steadily upward channeled destructizzle force yo, but tha key word, Jack thought, was destructizzle n' not channeled: if you stuck yo' hand up in there, tha barbecue would happen up in three quick seconds.

Lost yo' temper.

(Danny, is you all right?)

Da furnace filled tha entire room, by far tha freshest n' crazy oldschool Jack had eva seen.

"Da pilot's gots a gangbangin' fail-safe," Watson holla'd at his muthafuckin ass. "Little sensor up in there measures heat. If tha heat falls below a cold-ass lil certain point, it sets off a funky-ass buzzer up in yo' quarters. Boiler's on tha other side of tha wall. I'll take you around." Dude slammed tha gratin shut n' hustled Jack behind tha iron bulk of tha furnace toward another door. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Da iron radiated a stuporous heat at them, n' fo' some reason Jack thought of a large, dozin cat. Watson jingled his keys n' whistled.

Lost your-

(When da thug went back tha fuck into his study n' saw Danny standin there, bustin not a god damn thang but his hustlin baggy-ass pants n' a grin, a slow, red cloud of rage had eclipsed Jack's reason. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Well shiiiit, it had seemed slow subjectively, inside his head yo, but it must have all happened up in less than a minute. Well shiiiit, it only seemed slow tha way some trips seem slow. Da shitty ones. Every door n' drawer up in his study seemed ta done been ransacked up in tha time dat schmoooove muthafucka had been gone. Closet, cupboards, tha slidin bookcase. Every desk drawer yanked up ta tha stop yo. His manuscript, tha threeact play dat schmoooove muthafucka had been slowly pimpin from a novelette dat schmoooove muthafucka had freestyled seven muthafuckin years ago as a under-graduate, was scattered all over tha floor yo. Dude had been drankin a funky-ass brew n' bustin tha Act Pt II erections when Wendy holla'd tha beeper was fo' him, n' Danny had poured tha can of brew all over tha pages. Probably ta peep it foam. See it foam, peep it foam, tha lyrics played over n' over up in his crazy-ass mind like a single sick chord on a out-of-tune piano, completin tha circuit of his bangin rage yo. Dude stepped deliberately toward his cold-ass threeyear-old son, whoz ass was lookin up at his ass wit dat pleased grin, his thugged-out lil' pleasure all up in tha thang of work so successfully n' recently completed up in Daddy's study; Danny fuckin started ta say suttin' n' dat was when dat schmoooove muthafucka had grabbed Danny's hand n' bent it ta make his ass drop tha typewrita eraser n' tha mechanical pencil da thug was clenchin up in dat shit. Danny had cried up a lil... no... no... tell tha real deal... da perved-out muthafucka screamed. Dat shiznit was all hard ta remember all up in tha fog of anger, tha sick single thump of dat one Spike Jones chord. Wendy somewhere, askin what tha fuck was wrong yo. Her voice faint, damped by tha inner mist. This was between tha two of dem wild-ass muthafuckas yo. Dude had whirled Danny round ta spank him, his big-ass adult fingers diggin tha fuck into tha scant meat of tha boy's forearm, meetin round it up in a cold-ass lil closed fist, n' tha snap of tha breakin bone had not been loud, not bangin but it had been straight-up loud, HUGE yo, but not loud. Just enough of a sound ta slit all up in tha red fog like a arrow- but instead of lettin up in sunlight, dat sound let up in tha dark cloudz of shame n' remorse, tha terror, tha agonizin convulsion of tha spirit, n' I aint talkin bout no muthafuckin Jack Daniels neither fo' realz. A clean sound wit tha past on one side of it n' all tha future on tha other, a sound like a funky-ass breakin pencil lead or a lil' small-ass piece of kindlin when you brought it down over yo' knee fo' realz. A moment of utta silence on tha other side, up in respect ta tha beginnin future maybe, all tha rest of his wild lil' freakadelic game. Seein Danny's grill drain of color until dat shiznit was like cheese, seein his wild lil' fuckin eyes, always large, grow larger still, n' glassy, Jack shizzle tha pimp was goin ta faint dead away tha fuck into tha puddle of brew n' papers; his own voice, weak n' faded, slurry, tryin ta take all dat shiznit back, ta find a way round dat not too bangin sound of bone crackin n' tha fuck into tha past-is there a status quo up in tha house?-saying: Danny, is you all right, biatch? Danny's answerin shriek, then Wendy's shocked gasp as dat thugged-out biiiatch came round dem n' saw tha peculiar angle Danny's forearm had ta his wild lil' fuckin elbow; no arm was meant ta hang like dat way up in a ghetto of aiiight crews yo. Her own scream as her big-ass booty swept his ass tha fuck into her arms, n' a nonsense babble: Oh Dogg Danny oh dear Dogg oh dope Dogg yo' skanky dope arm; n' Jack was standin there, stunned n' stupid, tryin ta KNOW how tha fuck a thang like dis could have happened. Dude was standin there n' his wild lil' fuckin eyes kicked it wit tha eyez of his hoe n' da perved-out muthafucka saw dat Wendy hated his muthafuckin ass. Well shiiiit, it did not occur ta his ass what tha fuck tha don't give a fuck bout might mean up in practical terms; dat shiznit was only lata dat he realized she might have left his ass dat night, gone ta a motel, gotten a gangbangin' finger-lickin' divorce lawyer up in tha morning; or called tha five-o yo. Dude saw only dat his hoe hated his ass n' he felt staggered by it, all ridin' solo yo. Dude felt wack naaahhmean, biatch? This was what tha fuck oncomin dirtnap felt like. Then she fled fo' tha telephone n' dialed tha hospitizzle wit they beatboxin pimp wedged up in tha crook of her arm n' Jack did not go afta her, he only stood up in tha ruinz of his office, smellin brew n' thinking-)

Yo ass lost yo' temper.

Dude rubbed his hand harshly across his fuckin lips n' followed Watson tha fuck into tha boila room. Dat shiznit was humid up in here yo, but dat shiznit was mo' than tha humiditizzle dat brought tha sick n' slimy sweat onto his brow n' stomach n' legs. Da rememberin did that, dat shiznit was a total thang dat made dat night two muthafuckin years ago seem like two minutes ago. There was no lag. Well shiiiit, it brought tha shame n' revulsion back, tha sense of havin no worth at all, n' dat feelin always made his ass want ta git a thugged-out drink, n' tha wantin of a thugged-out drank brought still blacker despair-would he eva have a hour, not a week or even a thugged-out day, mind you yo, but just one wakin minute when tha cravin fo' a thugged-out drank wouldn't surprise his ass like this?

"Da boiler," Watson announced. Dude pulled a red n' blue bandanna from his back pocket, blew his nozzle wit a thugged-out decisive honk, n' thrust it back outta sight afta a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass short peek tha fuck into it ta peep if dat schmoooove muthafucka had gotten anythang interesting.

Da boila stood on four cement blocks, a long-ass n' cylindrical metal tank, copper-jacketed n' often patched. Well shiiiit, it squatted beneath a mad drama of pipes n' ducts which zigzagged upward tha fuck into tha high, cobweb-festooned basement ceiling. To Jack's right, two big-ass heatin pipes came all up in tha wall from tha furnace up in tha adjoinin room.

"Pressure gauge is here." Watson tapped dat shit. "Poundz per square inch, psi. I guess you'd know dis shit. I gots her up ta a hundred now, n' tha rooms git a lil chilly at night. Few guests complain, what tha fuck tha fuck. They're wild-ass ta come up here up in September anyway. Besides, dis be a oldschool baby. Got mo' patches on her than a pair of welfare overalls." Out came tha bandanna fo' realz. A honk fo' realz. A peek. Back it went.

"I gots me a gangbangin' fuckin cold," Watson holla'd conversationally. "I git one every last muthafuckin September n' shit. I be tinkerin down here wit dis oldschool whore, then I be up cuttin tha grass or rakin dat rogue court. Git a cold-ass lil chill n' catch a cold-ass lil cold, mah oldschool momma used ta say. Dogg bless her, da hoe been dead six year. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Da cancer gots her n' shit. Once tha cancer gets you, you might as well make yo' will.

"You'll wanna keep yo' press up ta no mo' than fifty, maybe sixty. Mista Muthafuckin Ullman, be say ta heat tha westside win one day, central win tha next, eastside win tha dizzle afta dis shiznit fo' realz. Ain't he a cold-ass lil crazyman, biatch? I don't give a fuck bout dat lil fucker n' shit. Yap-yap-yap all tha livelong day, he's just like one a dem lil dawgs dat bites you on tha ankle then run round a pizzle all over tha rug. If domes was black powder his schmoooove ass couldn't blow his own nose. It's a bitch ass muthafucka tha thangs you peep when you ain't gots a gun.

"Look here, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. Yo ass open a close these ducks by pullin these rings. I gots em all marked fo' you, biatch. Da blue tags all git all up in tha rooms up in tha eastside wing. Red tags is tha middle. Yellow is tha westside wing. When you git all up in heat tha westside wing, you gots ta remember that's tha side of tha hotel dat straight-up catches tha drizzle n' shit. When it whoops, dem rooms git as cold as a gangbangin' frigid biatch wit a ice cube up her works. Yo ass can run yo' press all tha way ta eighty on westside win days. I would, anyway."

"Da thermostats upstairs-" Jack fuckin started.

Watson shook his bead vehemently, makin his wild lil' fluffy afro bounce on his skull. "They ain't hooked up. They're just there fo' show. Some of these playas from California, they don't be thinkin thangs is right unless they gots it bangin' enough ta grow a palm tree up in they fuckin bedroom fo' realz. All tha heat be reppin down here, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. Got ta peep tha press, though cause I gots dem finger-lickin' chickens wit tha siz-auce. See her creep?"

Dude tapped tha main dial, which had crept from a hundred poundz per square inch ta a hundred n' two as Watson soliloquized. Jack felt a sudden shiver cross his back up in a hurry n' thought: Da goose just strutted over mah grave. Then Watson gave tha heat wheel a spin n' dumped tha boila off: There was a pimped out hissing, n' tha needle dropped back ta ninety-one. Watson twisted tha valve shut n' tha hissin took a dirt nap reluctantly.

"Bitch creeps," Watson holla'd. "Yo ass tell dat fat lil peckerwood Ullman, da ruffneck drags up tha account books n' spendz three minutes showin how tha fuck his schmoooove ass can't afford a freshly smoked up one until 1982. I rap, dis whole place is gonna go sky-high someday, n' I just hope dat fat fuck's here ta ride tha rocket. God, I wish I could be as charitable as mah mutha was. Biatch could peep tha phat up in everyone. Me, I'm just as mean as a snake wit tha shingles. What tha fuck, a playa can't help his nature.

"Now you gots ta remember ta come down here twice a thugged-out dizzle n' once at night before you rack in. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Yo ass gots ta check tha press. If you forget, it'll just creep n' creep n' like as not you a yo' fambly'll raise up on tha fuckin moon. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Yo ass just dump her off a lil n' you'll have no shit."

"What's top end?"

"Oh, she's rated fo' two-fifty yo, but she'd blow long before dat now, nahmeean, biatch? Yo ass couldn't git me ta come down a stand next ta her when dat dial was up ta one hundred n' eighty."

"There's no automatic shutdown?"

"Fuck dat shit, there ain't. This was built before such thangs was required. Federal posse's tha fuck into every last muthafuckin thang these days, ain't it, biatch? STD openin mail, CIA buggin tha goddam phones... n' look what tha fuck happened ta dat Nixon. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Wasn't dat a sorry sight?

"But if you just come down here regular a check tha press, you'll be fine fo' realz. An remember ta switch dem ducks round like da thug wants, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. Won't none of tha rooms git much above forty-five unless our crazy asses have a amazin warm winter n' shiznit fo' realz. And you'll have yo' own crib just as warm as you like dat shit."

"What bout tha plumbing?"

"Okay, I was just gettin ta dis shit. Over here all up in dis arch."

They strutted tha fuck into a long, rectangular room dat seemed ta stretch fo' miles. Watson pulled a cold-ass lil cord n' a single seventyfive-watt bulb cast a sickish, swingin glow over tha area they was standin in. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Straight ahead was tha bottom of tha elevator shaft, heavy greased cablez descendin ta pulleys twenty feet up in diameta n' a huge, grease-clogged motor. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Newspapers was everywhere, bundled n' banded n' boxed. Other cartons was marked Recordz or Invoices or ReceiptsSAV$1 Da smell was yellow n' moldy. Some of tha cartons was fallin apart, spillin yellow flimsy sheets dat might done been twenty muthafuckin years oldschool up onto tha floor. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Jack stared around, fascinated. This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. Da Overlook's entire history might be here, buried up in these rottin cartons.

"That elevator's a funky-ass biiiatch ta keep runnin," Watson holla'd, jerkin his cold-ass thumb at dat shit. "I know Ullman's buyin tha state elevator inspector all dem fancy dinners ta keep tha repairman away from dat fucker.

"Now, here's yo' central plumbin core." In front of dem five big-ass pipes, each of dem wrapped up in insulation n' cinched wit steel bands, rose tha fuck into tha shadows n' outta sight.

Watson pointed ta a cold-ass lil cobwebby shelf beside tha utilitizzle shaft. There was a fuckin shitload of greasy rags on it, n' a looseleaf binder n' shit. "That there be all yo' plumbin schematics," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. "I don't be thinkin you'll have any shiznit wit leaks-never has been-but sometimes tha pipes freeze up. Only way ta stop dat is ta run tha faucets a lil bit durin tha nights yo, but there's over four hundred taps up in dis fuckin palace. That fat fairy upstairs would scream all tha way ta Denver when da perved-out muthafucka saw tha wata bill fo' realz. Ain't dat right?"

"I'd say that's a remarkably astute analysis."

Watson looked at his ass admiringly. "Say, you straight-up is a cold-ass lil college fella aren't yo slick ass, biatch? Talk just like a funky-ass book. I admire that, as long as tha fella ain't one of dem fairy-boys. Lotz of em are. Yo ass know whoz ass stirred up all dem college riots all dem muthafuckin years ago, biatch? Da hommasexshuls, that's who. They git frustrated a gotta cut loose. Comin outta tha closet, they call it yo. Holy shit, I don't know what tha fuck tha ghetto's comin to.

"Now, if she freezes, she most likely gonna freeze right up in dis shaft. No heat, you see. If it happens, use this." Dude reached tha fuck into a gangbangin' fucked up orange crate n' produced a lil' small-ass gas torch.

"Yo ass just unstrap tha insulation when you find tha ice plug n' put tha heat right ta her n' shit. Git it?"

"Yes yes y'all. But what tha fuck if a pipe freezes outside tha utilitizzle core?"

"That won't happen if you're doin yo' thang n' keepin tha place heated. This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. Yo ass can't git ta tha other pipes anyway. Don't you fret bout dat shit. You'll have no shit. Beastly place down here, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. Cobwebby. Gives me tha horrors, it do."

"Ullman holla'd tha straight-up original gangsta winta caretaker capped his crew n' his dirty ass."

"Yeah, dat muthafucka Grady yo. Dude was a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shitty-ass hustla, I knew dat tha minute I saw his muthafuckin ass fo' realz. Always grinnin like a egg-suck dog. That was when they was just startin up here n' dat fat fuck Ullman, da thug woulda hired tha Boston Strangla if he'd've hit dat shiznit fo' minimum wage. Was a ranger from tha Nationizzle Park dat found em; tha beeper was up fo' realz. All of em up in tha westside win on tha third floor, froze solid. Too shitty bout tha lil hoes. Eight n' six, they was. Cute as cut-buttons. Oh, dat was a hell of a mess. That Ullman, he manages some honky-tonky resort place down up in Florida up in tha off-season, n' his schmoooove ass caught a plane up ta Denver n' hired a sleigh ta take his ass up here from Sidewinder cuz tha roadz was closed-a sleigh, can you believe that, biatch? Dude bout split a gut tryin ta keep it outta tha papers. Did pretty well, I gots ta give his ass dis shit. There was a item up in tha Denver Post, n' of course tha bituary up in dat pissant lil rag they have down up in Estes Park yo, but dat was just bout all. Pretty good, considerin tha hype dis place has got. I expected some reporta would dig all dat shiznit up again n' again n' again n' just sorta put Grady up in it as a excuse ta rake over tha scandals."

"What scandals?"

Watson shrugged. "Any big-ass hotels have gots scandals," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. "Just like every last muthafuckin big-ass hotel has gots a pimp. Why, biatch? Hell, playas come n' go. Sometimes one of em will pop off up in his bangin room, ass battle or stroke or suttin' like dis shiznit yo. Hotels is superstitious places. No thirteenth floor or room thirteen, no mirrors on tha back of tha door you come up in through, shiznit like dis shit. Why, our slick asses lost a lady just dis last July. Ullman had ta take care of that, n' you can bet yo' ass da ruffneck done did. That's what tha fuck they pay his ass twenty-two thousand bucks a season for, n' as much as I dislike tha lil prick, he earns dat shit. It's like some playas just come here ta throw up n' they hire a muthafucka like Ullman ta clean up tha messes yo. Here's dis biatch, must be sixty fuckin muthafuckin years old-my age!-and her hair's dyed just as red as a whore's stoplight, tizzlez saggin just bout down ta her belly button on account of she ain't wearin no brassy-ear, big-ass varycoarse veins all up n' down her hairy-ass legs so they be lookin like a cold-ass lil couple goddam roadmaps, tha jools drippin off her neck n' arms a hangin up her ears fo' realz. And she's gots dis kid wit her, his schmoooove ass can't be no mo' than seventeen, wit afro down ta his thugged-out asshole n' his crotch bulgin 'like da perved-out muthafucka stuffed it wit tha funkypages. So they're here a week, ten minutes maybe, n' every last muthafuckin night it's tha same ol' dirty drill. Down up in tha Colorado Lounge from five ta seven, her suckin up singapore slings like they're gonna outlaw em tomorrow n' his ass wit just tha one forty of Olympia, suckin it, makin it last fo' realz. And she'd be makin jokes n' sayin all these witty thangs, n' every last muthafuckin time her big-ass booty holla'd one he'd grin just like a gangbangin' fuckin ape, like dat freaky freaky biatch had strings tied ta tha cornerz of his crazy-ass grill. Only afta all dem minutes you could peep dat shiznit was gettin harder a harder fo' his ass ta grin, n' Dogg knows what tha fuck dat schmoooove muthafucka had ta be thinkin bout ta git his thugged-out lil' pump primed by bedtime. Well, they'd go up in fo' dinner, his ass struttin n' her staggerin, faded as a cold-ass lil coot, you know, n' he'd be pinchin tha waitresses n' grinnin at em when dat biiiiatch wasn't lookin. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Hell, we even had bets on how tha fuck long he'd last."

Watson shrugged.

"Then his schmoooove ass comes down one night round ten, sayin his 'wife' is 'indisposed'- which meant dat biiiiatch was passed up again n' again n' again like every last muthafuckin other night they was there-and he's goin ta git her some stomach medicine. So off he goes up in tha lil Porsche they come in, n' that's tha last we peep of his muthafuckin ass. Next mornin dat thugged-out biiiatch comes down n' tries ta put on dis big-ass act yo, but all dizzle she's gettin pala a paler, n' Mista Muthafuckin Ullman asks her, sorta diplomatic-like, would she like his ass ta notify tha state cops, just up in case maybe dat schmoooove muthafucka had a lil accident or something. She's on his ass like a cold-ass lil cat. No-no-no, he's a gangbangin' fine driver, she isn't worried, every last muthafuckin thang's under control, he'll be back fo' dinner n' shit. So dat afternoon her big-ass booty steps tha fuck into tha Colorado round three n' never has no dinner at all. Biatch goes up ta her room round tenthirty, n' that's tha last time anybody saw her kickin it."

"What happened?"

"County coroner holla'd dat dunkadelic hoe took bout thirty chillin pizzlez on top of all tha booze yo. Her homeboy flossed up tha next day, some big-shot lawyer from New York yo. Dude gave oldschool Ullman four different shadez of holy hell. I'll sue dis a I'll sue dat a when I'm all up in you won't even be able ta find a cold-ass lil clean pair of underwear, shiznit like dis shit. But Ullman's good, tha sucker n' shit. Ullman gots his ass on tha fuckin' down-lowed down. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Probably axed dat bigshot how tha fuck he'd like ta peep his hoe splashed all over tha New York papers: Wife of Prominent New York Blah Blah Found Dead With Bellyful of Chillin Pizzlez fo' realz. Afta playin hide-the-salami wit a kid lil' enough ta be her grandson.

"Da state cops found tha Porsche up in tha back of dis allnight burger joint down up in Lyons, n' Ullman pulled all dem strings ta git it busted out ta dat lawyer n' shit. Then both of dem ganged up on oldschool Archer Houghton, which is tha county coroner, n' gots his ass ta chizzle tha verdict ta accidental dirtnap yo. Heart attack. Now ole Archer's rollin a Chrysla n' shit. I don't begrudge his muthafuckin ass fo' realz. A dudez gots ta take it where he findz it, especially when da perved-out muthafucka starts gettin along up in years."

Out came tha bandanna yo. Honk. Peek. Out of sight.

"So what tha fuck happens, biatch? On some week lata dis wack playaaaaaa of a cold-ass lil chambermaid, Delores Vickery by name, she gives up wit a helluva shriek while she's makin up tha room where dem two stayed, n' she faints dead away. When dat thugged-out biiiatch comes ta her big-ass booty say her big-ass booty peeped tha dead biatch up in tha bathroom, layin naked up in tha tub. 'Her grill was all purple a puffy. ' her big-ass booty says, 'an dat biiiiatch was grinnin all up in mah face. ' So Ullman gave her two weeks' worth of struttin papers n' holla'd at her ta git lost. I figure there's maybe forty-fifty playas took a dirt nap up in dis hotel since mah grandfather opened it fo' bidnizz up in 1910."

Dude looked shrewdly at Jack.

"Yo ass know how tha fuck most of em go, biatch? Heart battle or stroke, while they're bangin tha lady they're with. That's what tha fuck these resorts git a shitload of, oldschool types dat want one last fling. They come up here ta tha mountains ta pretend they're twenty again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Sometimes somethin gives, n' not all tha muthafuckas whoz ass ran dis place was as phat as Ullman be at keepin it outta tha papers. So tha Overlook's gots a reputation, yeah. I'll bet tha fuckin Biltmore up in New York Citizzle has gots a reputation, if you ask tha right people."

"But no pimps?"

"Mista Muthafuckin Torrance, I've hit dat shiznit here all mah game. I played here when I was a kid no older'n yo' pimp up in dat wallet snapshot you flossed mah dirty ass. I never peeped a pimp yet. Yo ass wanna come up back wit me, I'll show you tha shiznit shed."

"Fine."

As Watson reached up ta turn off tha light, Jack holla'd, "There shizzle is a shitload of papers down here."

"Oh, you're not kiddin. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Seems like they go back a thousand years. Newspapers n' oldschool invoices n' billz of ladin n' Christ knows what tha fuck else. My fuckin daddy used ta keep up wit dem pretty phat when our crazy asses had tha oldschool wood-burnin furnace yo, but now they've gots all outta hand. Some year I gots ta git a funky-ass pimp ta haul dem down ta Sidewinder n' burn em. If Ullman will stand tha expense. I guess da thug will if I holla `rat' bangin enough."

"Then there be rats?"

"Yeah, I guess there's some. I gots tha traps n' tha poison Mista Muthafuckin Ullman wants you ta use up in tha attic n' down here, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. Yo ass keep a phat eye on yo' boy, Mista Muthafuckin Torrance. Yo ass wouldn't want not a god damn thang ta happen ta his muthafuckin ass."

"Fuck dat shit, I shizzle wouldn't." Comin from Watson tha lyrics didn't sting.

They went ta tha stairs n' paused there fo' a moment while Watson blew his nozzle again.

"You'll find all tha tools you need up there n' some you don't, I guess fo' realz. And there's tha shingles. Did Ullman rap bout that?"

"Yes, da thug wants part of tha westside roof reshingled."

"Hell git all tha for-free outta you dat his schmoooove ass can, tha fat lil prick, n' then whine round up in tha sprang bout how tha fuck you didn't do tha thang half right. I holla'd at his ass once right ta his wild lil' face, I holla'd..."

Watson's lyrics faded away ta a cold-ass lil comfortin drone as they mounted tha stairs. Jack Torrizzle looked back over his shoulder once tha fuck into tha impenetrable, mustysmellin darknizz n' thought dat if there was eva a place dat should have pimps, dis was it yo. Dude thought of Grady, locked up in by tha soft, implacable snow, goin on tha fuckin' down-lowly berserk n' committin his thugged-out atrocity. Did they scream, biatch? da thug wondered. Skanky Grady, feelin it close up in on his ass mo' every last muthafuckin day, n' knowin at last dat fo' his ass sprang would never come yo. Dude shouldn't done been here, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho fo' realz. And da perved-out muthafucka shouldn't have lost his cold-ass temper.

As he followed Watson all up in tha door, tha lyrics echoed back ta his ass like a knell, accompanied by a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass sharp snap-like a funky-ass breakin pencil lead. Lawd Jesus, his schmoooove ass could bust a thugged-out drink. Or a thousand of dem wild-ass muthafuckas.

Chapta 4. Shadowland
Danny weakened n' went up fo' his crazy-ass gin n juice n' dem scooby snacks at quarta past four yo. Dude gobbled dem while lookin up tha window, then went up in ta lick his crazy-ass mother, whoz ass was lyin down. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Biatch suggested dat da perved-out muthafucka stay up in n' peep "Sesame Street"-the time would pass faster-but da perved-out muthafucka shook his head firmly n' went back ta his thugged-out lil' place on tha curb.

Now dat shiznit was five o'clock, n' although da ruffneck didn't gotz a peep n' couldn't tell time too well yet anyway, da thug was aware of passin time by tha lengthenin of tha shadows, n' by tha golden cast dat now tinged tha afternoon light.

Turnin tha glider over up in his hands, da perved-out muthafucka busted under his breath: "Skip ta m Lou, n I don't care... skip ta m Lou, n I don't care... mah master's gone away... Lou, Lou, skip ta In Lou..."

They had sung dat cold lil' woo wop all together all up in tha Jack n' Jill Nursery School dat schmoooove muthafucka had gone ta back up in Stovington. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude didn't git all up in nursery school up here cuz Daddy couldn't afford ta bust his ass no mo' yo. Dude knew his crazy-ass mutha n' daddy worried bout that, worried dat dat shiznit was addin ta his fuckin lonelinizz (and even mo' deeply, unspoken between them, dat Danny blamed them) yo, but da ruffneck didn't straight-up wanna git all up in dat oldschool Jack n' Jill no mo'. Dat shiznit was fo' babies yo. Dude wasn't like a funky-ass big-ass kid yet yo, but da thug wasn't a funky-ass baby no mo'. Big lil playas went ta tha big-ass school n' gots a funky-ass bangin' lunch. First grade. Next year. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. This year was someplace between bein a funky-ass baby n' a real kid. Dat shiznit was all right yo. Dude did miss Scott n' Andy-mostly Scott-but dat shiznit was still all right. Well shiiiit, it seemed dopest ta wait ridin' solo fo' whatever might happen next.

Dude understood a pimped out nuff thangs bout his thugged-out lil' muthafathas, n' he knew dat nuff times they didn't like his understandings n' nuff other times refused ta believe dem wild-ass muthafuckas. But somedizzle they would gotta believe yo. Dude was content ta wait.

Dat shiznit was too shitty they couldn't believe more, though, especially at times like now, nahmeean, biatch? Mommy was lyin on her bed up in tha crib, just bout bustin up like a biatch dat biiiiatch was so worried bout Daddy. Some of tha thangs dat biiiiatch was worried bout was too grown-up fo' Danny ta understand-vague thangs dat had ta do wit security, wit Daddy's selfimage vibe of guilt n' anger n' tha fear of what tha fuck was ta become of them-but tha two main thangs on her mind right now was dat Daddy had had a funky-ass breakdown up in tha mountains (then why don't his schmoooove ass call?) or dat Daddy had gone off ta do tha Shiznitty Thing. Danny knew perfectly well what tha fuck tha Shiznitty Thin was since Scotty Aaronson, whoz ass was six months older, had explained it ta his muthafuckin ass. Scotty knew cuz his fuckin lil' daddy did tha Shiznitty Thing, like a muthafucka. Once, Scotty holla'd at him, his fuckin lil' daddy had socked his crazy-ass momma right up in tha eye n' knocked her down. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Finally, Scotty's daddy n' momma had gotten a DIVORCE over tha Shiznitty Thing, n' when Danny had known him, Scotty lived wit his crazy-ass mutha n' only saw his fuckin lil' daddy on weekends. Da top billin terror of Danny's game was DIVORCE, a word dat always rocked up in his crazy-ass mind as a sign painted up in red lettas which was covered wit hissing, poisonous snakes. In DIVORCE, yo' muthafathas no longer lived together n' shit. They had a tug of war over you up in a cold-ass lil court (tennis court, biatch? badminton court, biatch? Danny wasn't shizzle which or if dat shiznit was some other yo, but Mommy n' Daddy had played both tennis n' badminton at Stovington, so he assumed it could be either) n' you had ta go wit one of dem n' you practically never saw tha other one, n' tha one you was wit could marry some muthafucka you didn't even know if tha urge came on dem wild-ass muthafuckas. Da most terrifyin thang bout DIVORCE was dat dat schmoooove muthafucka had sensed tha word-or concept, or whatever dat shiznit was dat came ta his ass up in his understandings-floatin round up in his own muthafathas' heads, sometimes diffuse n' relatively distant, sometimes as thick n' obscurin n' frightenin as thunderheads. Well shiiiit, it had been dat way afta Daddy punished his ass fo' messin tha papers up in his study n' tha doctor had ta put his thugged-out arm up in a cold-ass lil cast. That memory was already faded yo, but tha memory of tha DIVORCE thoughts was clear n' terrifying. Well shiiiit, it had mostly been round his crazy-ass mommy dat time, n' dat schmoooove muthafucka had been up in constant terror dat dat biiiiatch would pluck tha word from her dome n' drag it outta her grill, makin it real. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack. DIVORCE. Dat shiznit was a cold-ass lil constant undercurrent up in they thoughts, one of tha few his schmoooove ass could always pick up, like tha beat of simple beatz. Drop dis like itz hot! But like a funky-ass beat, tha central thought formed only tha spine of mo' complex thoughts, thoughts his schmoooove ass could not as yet even begin ta interpret. They came ta his ass only as flavas n' vibes. Mommy's DIVORCE thoughts centered round what tha fuck Daddy had done ta his thugged-out arm, n' what tha fuck had happened at Stovington when Daddy lost his thang. That boy. That George Hatfield whoz ass gots pissed off at Daddy n' put tha holez up in they bug's Nikes. Daddy's DIVORCE thoughts was mo' complex, colored dark violet n' blasted all up in wit frightenin veinz of pure black yo. Dude seemed ta be thinkin they would be betta off if he left. That thangs would stop hurtin yo. His daddyhurt almost all tha time, mostly bout tha Shiznitty Thing. Danny could almost always pick dat up too: Daddy's constant cravin ta go tha fuck into a thugged-out dark place n' peep a cold-ass lil color TV n' smoke peanuts outta a funky-ass bowl n' do tha Shiznitty Thin until his dome would be on tha down-low n' leave his ass ridin' solo.

But dis afternoon his crazy-ass mutha had no need ta worry n' da thug wished his schmoooove ass could git all up in her n' tell her dis shit. Da bug had not fucked up down. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Daddy was not off somewhere bustin tha Shiznitty Thin yo. Dude was almost home now, put-puttin along tha highway between Lyons n' Boulder n' shit. For tha moment his fuckin lil' daddy wasn't even thankin bout tha Shiznitty Thin yo. Dude was thankin about...about...

Danny looked furtively behind his ass all up in tha kitchen window. Sometimes thankin straight-up hard made suttin' happen ta his muthafuckin ass. Well shiiiit, it made thangs-real thangs-go away, n' then da perved-out muthafucka saw thangs dat weren't there, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. Once, not long afta they put tha cast on his thugged-out arm, dis had happened all up in tha supper table. They weren't poppin' off much ta each other then. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. But they was thinking. Oh yes. Da thoughtz of DIVORCE hung over tha kitchen table like a cold-ass lil cloud full of black rain, pregnant, locked n loaded ta burst. Dat shiznit was so shitty his schmoooove ass couldn't eat. Da thought of smokin wit all dat black DIVORCE round made his ass wanna throw up fo' realz. And cuz it had seemed desperately blingin, dat schmoooove muthafucka had thrown his dirty ass straight-up tha fuck into concentration n' suttin' had happened. When his schmoooove ass came back ta real thangs, da thug was lyin on tha floor wit beans n' mashed potatoes up in his fuckin lap n' his crazy-ass mommy was holdin his ass n' bustin up like a biatch n' Daddy had been on tha phone yo. Dude had been frightened, had tried ta explain ta dem dat there was not a god damn thang wrong. dat dis sometimes happened ta his ass when his schmoooove ass concentrated on understandin mo' than what tha fuck normallv came ta his muthafuckin ass yo. Dude tried ta explain bout Tony, whoz ass they called his "invisible playmate."

His daddy had holla'd: "He's havin a Ha Loo Sin Nation. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude seems all gravy yo, but I want tha doctor ta peep his ass anyway."

Afta tha doctor left, Mommy had made his ass promise ta never do dat again, ta never scare dem dat way, n' Danny had agreed. Dude was frightened his dirty ass. Because when da perved-out muthafucka shitty concentrated his crazy-ass mind, it had flown up ta his fuckin lil' daddy, n' fo' just a moment, before Tony had rocked up (far away, as be always did, callin distantly) n' tha strange thangs had blotted up they kitchen n' tha carved roast on tha blue plate, fo' just a moment his own consciousnizz had plunged all up in his fuckin lil' daddy's darknizz ta a incomprehensible word much mo' frightenin than DIVORCE, n' dat word was SUICIDE. Danny had never come across it again n' again n' again up in his fuckin lil' daddy's mind, n' dat schmoooove muthafucka had certainly not gone lookin fo' it yo. Dude didn't care if he never found up exactly what tha fuck dat word meant.

But da ruffneck did like ta concentrate, cuz sometimes Tony would come. Not every last muthafuckin time. Sometimes thangs just gots woozy n' swimmy fo' a minute n' then cleared- most times, up in fact-but at other times Tony would step tha fuck up all up in tha straight-up limit of his vision, callin distantly n' beckoning...

It had happened twice since they moved ta Boulder, n' he remembered how tha fuck surprised n' pleased dat schmoooove muthafucka had been ta find Tony had followed his ass all tha way from Vermont. So all his wild lil' playaz hadn't been left behind afta all.

Da last time dat schmoooove muthafucka had been up in tha back yard n' not a god damn thang much had happened. Just Tony beckonin n' then darknizz n' all dem minutes lata dat schmoooove muthafucka had come back ta real thangs wit all dem vague fragmentz of memory, like a jumbled dream. Da second time, two weeks ago, had been mo' interesting. Tony, beckoning, callin from four yardz over: "Danny... come see..." It seemed dat da thug was gettin up, then fallin tha fuck into a thugged-out deep hole, like Alice tha fuck into Wonderland. Then dat schmoooove muthafucka had been up in tha basement of tha crib doggy den n' Tony had been beside him, pointin tha fuck into tha shadows all up in tha trunk his fuckin lil' daddy carried all his crazy-ass muthafuckin blingin papers in, especially "THE PLAY."

"See?" Tony had holla'd up in his fuckin lil' distant, musical voice. "It's under thestairs. Right under tha stairs. Da movers put it right... under... tha stairs."

Danny had stepped forward ta look mo' closely at dis marvel n' then da thug was fallin again, dis time outta tha back-yard swing, where dat schmoooove muthafucka had been chillin all along yo. Dude had gotten tha wind knocked outta his dirty ass, like a muthafucka.

Three or four minutes lata his fuckin lil' daddy had been stompin around, spittin some lyrics ta Mommy furiously dat dat schmoooove muthafucka had been all over tha goddam basement n' tha trunk wasn't there n' da thug was goin ta sue tha goddam movers whoz ass had left it somewhere between Vermont n' Colorado yo. How tha fuck was da perved-out muthafucka supposed ta be able ta finish "THE PLAY" if thangs like dis kept croppin up?

Danny holla'd, "Fuck dat shit, Daddy. It's under tha stairs. Da movers put it right under tha stairs."

Daddy had given his ass a strange look n' had gone down ta see. Da trunk had been there, just where Tony had shown his muthafuckin ass. Daddy had taken his ass aside, had sat his ass on his fuckin lap, n' had axed Danny whoz ass let his ass down cellar yo. Had it been Tomothy from upstairs, biatch? Da cellar was dangerous, Daddy holla'd. That was why tha landlord kept it locked. If one of mah thugs was leavin it unlocked, Daddy wanted ta know yo. Dude was glad ta have his thugged-out lil' papers n' his "PLAY" but it wouldn't be worth it ta him, da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, if Danny fell tha fuck down tha stairs n' broke his... his fuckin leg. Danny holla'd at his wild lil' daddy earnestly dat dat schmoooove muthafucka hadn't been down up in tha cellar. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. That door was always locked. And Mommy agreed. Danny never went down up in tha back hall, her big-ass booty holla'd, cuz dat shiznit was damp n' dark n' spidery fo' realz. And da ruffneck didn't tell lies.

"Then bow did you know, doc?" Daddy asked.

"Tony flossed mah dirty ass."

His mutha n' daddy had exchanged a look over his head. This had happened before, from time ta time. Because dat shiznit was frightening, they swept it quickly from they minds. But be knew they worried bout Tony, Mommy especially, n' da thug was careful bout thankin tha way dat could make Tony come where she might see. But now tha pimpin' muthafucka thought dat biiiiatch was lyin down, not movin bout up in tha kitchen yet, n' so his schmoooove ass concentrated hard ta peep if his schmoooove ass could KNOW what tha fuck Daddy was thankin about.

His brow furrowed n' his slightly grimy handz clenched tha fuck into tight fists on his jeans yo. Dude did not close his wild lil' fuckin eyes-that wasn't necessary-but da perved-out muthafucka squinched dem down ta slits n' imagined Daddy's voice, Jack's voice, Jizzy Daniel Torrance's voice, deep n' steady, sometimes quirkin up wit amusement or deepenin even mo' wit anger or just stayin steady cuz da thug was thinking. Thinkin of. Thinkin about. Thinking...

(thinking)

Danny sighed on tha fuckin' down-lowly n' his body slumped on tha curb as if all tha musclez had gone outta it yo. Dude was straight-up conscious; da perved-out muthafucka saw tha street n' tha hoe n' pimp struttin up tha sidewalk on tha other side, holdin handz cuz they were

(?in love?)

so aiiight bout tha dizzle n' theyselves together up in tha day. It make me wanna hollar playa! Dude saw autumn leaves blowin along tha gutter, yellow cartwheelz of irregular shape yo. Dude saw tha doggy den they was passin n' noticed how tha fuck tha roof was covered with

(shingles. i guess it'll be no problem if tha flashing's aiiight yeah that'll be all right. dat watson. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. christ what tha fuck a cold-ass lil character n' shit. wish there was a place fo' his ass up in "THE PLAY. " i'll end up wit tha whole fuckin human race up in it if i don't peep out. yeah. shingles. is there nails up there, biatch? oh shiznit forgot ta ask his ass well they're simple ta get. sidewinder hardware store. wasps. they're nestin dis time of year. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. i might wanna git one of dem bug bombs up in case they're there when i rip up tha oldschool shingles. freshly smoked up shingles. old)

shingles. So that's what tha fuck da thug was thankin bout yo. Dude had gotten tha thang n' was thankin bout shingles. Danny didn't know whoz ass Watson was yo, but every last muthafuckin thang else seemed clear enough cause I gots dem finger-lickin' chickens wit tha siz-auce fo' realz. And he might git ta peep a wasps' nest. Just as shizzle as his name was

"Danny... Dannee..."

Dude looked up n' there was Tony, far up tha street, standin by a stop sign n' waving. Danny, as always, felt a warm burst of pleasure at seein his oldschool playa yo, but dis time da perved-out muthafucka seemed ta feel a prick of fear, too, as if Tony had come wit some darknizz hidden behind his back fo' realz. A jar-of wasps which when busted out would stin deeply.

But there was no question of not going.

Dude slumped further down on tha curb, his handz slidin laxly from his wild lil' fat-ass thighs n' danglin below tha fork of his crotch yo. His chin sank onto his chest. Then there was a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dim, painless tug as part of his ass gots up n' ran afta Tony tha fuck into funnelin darkness.

"Dannee-"

Now tha darknizz gots popped wit swirlin whitenizz fo' realz. A coughing, whoopin sound n' bending, tortured shadows dat resolved theyselves tha fuck into fir trees at night, bein pushed by a beatboxin gale. Snow swirled n' danced. Snow all over dis biiiatch.

"Too deep," Tony holla'd from tha darkness, n' there was a sadnizz up in his voice dat terrified Danny. "Too deep ta git out."

Another shape, looming, rearing. Big-Ass n' rectangular fo' realz. A slopin roof. Whitenizz dat was blurred up in tha stormy darkness. Many windows fo' realz. A long buildin wit a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shingled roof. Some of tha shinglez was greener, newer n' shiznit yo. His daddy put dem on. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. With nails from tha Sidewinder hardware store. Now tha snow was coverin tha shingles. Dat shiznit was coverin every last muthafuckin thang.

A chronic witchlight glowed tha fuck into bein on tha front of tha building, flickered, n' became a giant, grinnin skull over two crossed bones:

"Poison," Tony holla'd from tha floatin darkness. "Poison."

Other signs flickered past his wild lil' fuckin eyes, some up in chronic letters, a shitload of dem on boardz stuck at leanin anglez tha fuck into tha snowdrifts, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. NO SWIMMING. DANGER! LIVE WIRES. THIS PROPERTY CONDEMNED yo. HIGH VOLTAGE. THIRD RAIL. DANGER OF DEATH. KEEP OFF. KEEP OUT. NO TRESPASSING. VIOLATORS WILL BE SHOT ON SIGHT yo. Dude understood none of dem straight-up-he couldn't read!-but gots a sense of all, n' a thugged-out dreamy terror floated tha fuck into tha dark hollowz of his body like light brown spores dat would take a thugged-out dirtnap up in sunlight.

They faded. Now da thug was up in a room filled wit strange furniture, a room dat was dark. Snow spattered against tha windows like thrown sand. His grill was dry, his wild lil' fuckin eyes like bangin' marbles, his thugged-out ass triphammerin up in his chest. Outside there was a hollow boomin noise, like a thugged-out dreadful door bein thrown wide. Footfalls fo' realz. Across tha room was a mirror, n' deep down up in its silver bubble a single word rocked up in chronic fire n' dat word was: REDRUM.

Da room faded. Another room yo. Dude knew

(would know)

this one fo' realz. An overturned chair fo' realz. A fucked up window wit snow swirlin in; already it had frosted tha edge of tha rug. Da drapes had been pulled free n' hung on they fucked up rod at a angle fo' realz. A low cabinet lyin on its face.

Mo' hollow boomin noises, steady, rhythmic, horrible. Smashin glass fo' realz. Approachin destruction. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. A hoarse voice, tha voice of a madman, made tha mo' shitty by its familiarity:

Come up son! Came out, you lil shiznit son! Take yo' medicine biaatch!

Crash. Crash. Crash. Splinterin wood. I be fly as a gangbangin' falcon, soarin all up in tha sky dawwwwg! A bellow of rage n' satisfaction. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. REDRUM. Coming.

Driftin across tha room. Pictures torn off tha walls fo' realz. A record playa

(?Mommy's record playa'!)

overturned on tha floor yo. Her records, Grieg, Handel, tha Beatles, Art Garfunkel, Bach, Liszt, thrown everywhere, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. Broken tha fuck into jagged black pie wedges fo' realz. A shaft of light comin from another room, tha bathroom, harsh white light n' a word flickerin on n' off up in tha medicine cabinet mirror like a red eye, REDRUM, REDRUM, REDRUM-

"No," da thug whispered. "Fuck dat shit, Tony please-"

And, danglin over tha white porcelain lip of tha bathtub, a hand. Limp fo' realz. A slow trickle of blood (REDRUM) tricklin down one of tha fingers, tha third, drippin onto tha tile from tha carefully shaped nail-

No oh no oh no-

(oh please, Tony, you're scarin me)

REDRUM REDRUM REDRUM

(stop it, Tony, stop it)

Fading.

In tha darknizz tha boomin noises grew louder, louder still, echoing, everywhere, all around.

And now da thug was crouched up in a thugged-out dark hallway, crouched on a funky-ass blue rug wit a riot of twistin black shapes woven tha fuck into its pile, listenin ta tha boomin noises approach, n' now a Shape turned tha corner n' fuckin started ta come toward him, lurching, smellin of blood n' doom. Well shiiiit, it had a mallet up in one hand n' dat shiznit was swingin it (REDRUM) from side ta side up in vicious arcs, slammin it tha fuck into tha walls, cuttin tha silk wallpaper n' knockin up pimply burstz of plasterdust:

Come on n' take yo' medicine biaaatch! Take it like a man!

Da Shape advancin on him, reekin of dat dope-sour odor, gigantic, tha mallet head cuttin across tha air wit a wicked hissin whisper, then tha pimped out hollow boom as it crashed tha fuck into tha wall, bustin tha dust up in a puff you could smell, dry n' itchy. Tiny red eyes glowed up in tha dark. Da monsta was upon him, it had discovered him, cowerin here wit a funky-ass blank wall at his back fo' realz. And tha trapdoor up in tha ceilin was locked.

Darkness. Drifting.

"Tony, please take me back, please, please-"

And da thug was back, chillin on tha curb of Arapahoe Street, his hoodie stickin damply ta his back, his body bathed up in sweat. In his wild lil' fuckin ears his schmoooove ass could still hear dat huge, contrapuntal boomin sound n' smell his own urine as he voided his dirty ass up in tha extremitizzle of his cold-ass terror yo. Dude could peep dat limp hand danglin over tha edge of tha tub wit blood hustlin down one finger, tha third, n' dat inexplicable word so much mo' wack than any of tha others: REDRUM.

And now sunshine. Real thangs. Except fo' Tony, now six blocks up, only a speck, standin on tha corner, his voice faint n' high n' dope. "Be careful, doc..."

Then, up in tha next instant, Tony was gone n' Daddy's battered red bug was turnin tha corner n' chatterin up tha street, fartin blue smoke behind dat shit. Danny was off tha curb up in a second, waving, jivin from one foot ta tha other, yelling: "Daddy dawwwwg! Yo, Dad hommie! Hi! Hi!"

His daddy swung tha VW tha fuck into tha curb, capped tha engine, n' opened tha door. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Danny ran toward his ass n' then froze, his wild lil' fuckin eyes widenin yo. His ass crawled up tha fuck into tha middle of his cold-ass throat n' froze solid. Beside his fuckin lil' daddy, up in tha other front seat, was a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass short-handled mallet, its head clotted wit blood n' hair.

Then dat shiznit was just a ounce ta tha bounce of groceries.

"Danny... you aiiight, doc?"

"Yeah. I'm aiiight." Dude went ta his fuckin lil' daddy n' buried his wild lil' grill up in Daddy's sheepskin-lined denim jacket n' hugged his ass tight tight tight. Jack hugged his ass back, slightly bewildered.

"Yo, you don't wanna sit up in tha sun like that, doc. You're drippin sweat."

"I guess I fell tha fuck asleep a lil. I gots a straight-up boner fo' you, Daddy. I been waiting."

"I gots a straight-up boner fo' you too, Dan. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I brought home some stuff. Think you're big-ass enough ta carry it upstairs?"

"Sure am!"

"Doc Torrance, tha ghetto's stroneest dude," Jack holla'd, n' ruffled his hair. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. "Whose hobby is fallin asleep on street corners."

Then they was struttin up ta tha door n' Mommy had come down ta tha porch ta hook up dem n' da perved-out muthafucka stood on tha second step n' peeped dem kiss. They was glad ta peep each other n' shit. Ludd came outta dem tha way ludd had come outta tha pimp n' hoe struttin up tha street n' holdin hands. Danny was glad.

Da ounce ta tha bounce of groceries-just a ounce ta tha bounce of groceries-crackled up in his thugged-out arms. Boy it's gettin hot, yes indeed it is. Everythang was all right. Daddy was home. Mommy was gangbangin his muthafuckin ass. There was no shitty thangs fo' realz. And not every last muthafuckin thang Tony flossed his ass always happened.

But fear had settled round his thugged-out ass, deep n' dreadful, round his thugged-out ass n' round dat indecipherable word dat schmoooove muthafucka had peeped up in his spirit's mirror.

Chapta 5. Phonebooth
Jack parked tha VW up in front of tha Rexall up in tha Table Mesa hustlin centa n' let tha engine take a thugged-out dirt nap yo. Dude wondered again n' again n' again if da perved-out muthafucka shouldn't go ahead n' git tha gin n juice pump replaced, n' holla'd at his dirty ass again n' again n' again dat they couldn't afford dat shit. If tha lil hoopty could keep hustlin until November, it could retire wit full honors anyway. By November tha snow up there up in tha mountains would be higher than tha beetle's roof... maybe higher than three beetlez stacked on top of each other.

"Want you ta stay up in tha car, doe. I'll brang you a cold-ass lil candy bar."

"Why can't I come in?"

"I gotta cook up a funky-ass beeper call. It's private stuff."

"Is dat why you didn't make it at home?"

"Check."

Wendy had insisted on a funky-ass beeper up in spite of they unravelin finances. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch had broke off some disrespec dat wit a lil' small-ass child-especially a funky-ass pimp like Danny, whoz ass sometimes suffered from faintin spells-they couldn't afford not ta have one. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So Jack had forked over tha thirty-dollar installation fee, shitty enough, n' a ninety-dollar securitizzle deposit, which straight-up hurt fo' realz. And so far tha beeper had been mute except fo' two wack numbers.

"Can I gots a Baby Ruth, Daddy?"

"Yes yes y'all. Yo ass sit still n' don't fuck wit tha gearshift, right?"

"Right. I'll peep tha maps."

"Yo ass do that."

As Jack gots out, Danny opened tha bug's glovebox n' took up tha five battered gas station maps: Colorado, Nebraska, Utah, Wyoming, New Mexico yo. Dude loved road maps, loved ta trace where tha roadz went wit his wild lil' finger n' shiznit fo' realz. As far as da thug was concerned, freshly smoked up maps was tha dopest part of movin West.

Jack went ta tha sticky-icky-ickystore counter, gots Danny's candy bar, n' newspaper, n' a cold-ass lil copy of tha October Writer's Digest yo. Dude gave tha hoe a gangbangin' five n' axed fo' his chizzle up in quarters. With tha silver up in his hand da thug strutted over ta tha telephone booth by tha keymakin machine n' slipped inside. From here his schmoooove ass could peep Danny up in tha bug all up in three setz of glass. Da boy's head was bent studiously over his crazy-ass maps. Jack felt a wave of nearly desperate ludd fo' tha boy. Da emotion flossed on his wild lil' grill as a stony grimness.

Dude supposed his schmoooove ass could have made his obligatory thank-you call ta Al from home; his schmoooove ass certainly wasn't goin ta say anythang Wendy would object to. Dat shiznit was his thugged-out lil' pride dat holla'd no. These minutes he almost always listened ta what tha fuck his thugged-out lil' pride holla'd at his ass ta do, cuz along wit his hoe n' son, six hundred dollars up in a cold-ass lil checkin account, n' one weary 1968 Volkswagen, his thugged-out lil' pride was all dat was left. Da only thang dat was his. Even tha checkin account was joint fo' realz. A year ago dat schmoooove muthafucka had been teachin Gangsta up in one of tha finest prep schools up in New England. There had been playas-although not exactly tha same ones he'd had before goin on tha wagon-some laughs, fellow faculty thugz whoz ass admired his fuckin lil' deft bust a nut on up in tha classroom n' his thugged-out lil' private dedication ta writing. Things had been straight-up phat six months ago fo' realz. All at once there was enough scrilla left over all up in tha end of each two-week pay period ta start a lil savings account. In his fuckin lil' drankin minutes there had never been a penny left over, even though Al Shockley had stood a pimped out nuff of tha roundz yo. Dude n' Wendy had begun ta rap cautiously bout findin a doggy den n' bustin a thugged-out down payment up in a year or so fo' realz. A farmhouse up in tha ghetto, take six or eight muthafuckin years ta renovate it straight-up, what tha fuck tha hell, they was young, they had time.

Then dat schmoooove muthafucka had lost his cold-ass temper.

George Hatfield.

Da smell of hope had turned ta tha smell of oldschool leather up in Crommert's office, tha whole thang like some scene from his own play: tha oldschool printz of previous Stovington headmastas on tha walls, steel engravingz of tha school as it had been up in 1879, when dat shiznit was first built, n' up in 1895, when Vanderbilt scrilla had enabled dem ta build tha field doggy den dat still stood all up in tha westside end of tha soccer field, squat, immense, dressed up in ivy fo' realz. April ivy had been rustlin outside Crommert's slit window n' tha drowsy sound of steam heat came from tha radiator. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Dat shiznit was no set, he remembered thinking. Dat shiznit was real. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack yo. His game yo. How tha fuck could dat schmoooove muthafucka have fucked it up so badly?

"This be a straight-up thang, Jack. Terribly straight-up n shit. Da Board has axed mah crazy ass ta convey its decision ta you, biatch."

Da Board wanted lack's resignation n' Jack had given it ta dem wild-ass muthafuckas. Under different circumstances, da thug would have gotten tenure dat June.

What had followed dat rap battle up in Crommert's crib had been tha darkest, most dreadful night of his wild lil' freakadelic game. Da wanting, tha needin ta git faded had never been so bad. His handz shook yo. Dude knocked thangs over n' shiznit fo' realz. And he kept wantin ta take it up on Wendy n' Danny yo. His temper was like a vicious animal on a gangbangin' frayed leash yo. Dude had left tha doggy den up in terror dat he might strike dem wild-ass muthafuckas yo. Had ended up outside a funky-ass bar, n' tha only thang dat had kept his ass from goin up in was tha knowledge dat if da ruffneck did, Wendy would leave his ass at last, n' take Danny wit her n' shiznit yo. Dude would be dead from tha dizzle they left.

Instead of goin tha fuck into tha bar, where dark shadows sat samplin tha dirty wataz of oblivion, dat schmoooove muthafucka had gone ta Al Shockley's house. Da Board's vote had been six ta one fo' realz. Al had been tha one.

Now da ruffneck dialed tha operator n' dat dunkadelic hoe holla'd at his ass dat fo' a thugged-out dollar eighty-five his schmoooove ass could be put up in bust a nut on wit Al two thousand milez away fo' three minutes. Time is relative, baby, tha pimpin' muthafucka thought, n' stuck up in eight quarters. Faintly his schmoooove ass could hear tha electronic boops n' beepz of his connection sniffin its way eastsideward.

Al's daddy had been Arthur Longley Shockley, tha steel baron. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude had left his only son, Albert, a gangbangin' fortune n' a big-ass range of investments n' directorships n' chairs on various boards. One of these had been on tha Board of Directors fo' Stovington Preparatory Academy, tha oldschool dudez straight-up charity. Both Arthur n' Albert Shockley was alumni n' Al lived up in Barre, close enough ta take a underground interest up in tha school's affairs. For nuff muthafuckin muthafuckin years Al had been Stovington's tennis pimp.

Jack n' Al had become playaz up in a cold-ass lil straight-up natural n' uncoincidental way: all up in tha nuff school n' faculty functions they attended together, they was always tha two fadedest playas there, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Shockley was separated from his hoe, n' Jack's own marriage was skiddin slowly downhill, although da perved-out muthafucka still loved Wendy n' had promised sincerely (and frequently) ta reform, fo' her sake n' fo' baby Danny's.

Da two of dem went on from nuff faculty parties, hittin tha bars until they closed, then stoppin at some momma 'n' pot) store fo' a cold-ass lil case of brew they would drank parked all up in tha end of some back road. There was mornings when Jack would stumble tha fuck into they leased doggy den wit dawn seepin tha fuck into tha sky n' find Wendy n' tha baby asleep on tha couch, Danny always on tha inside, a tiny fist curled under tha shelf of Wendy's jaw yo. Dude would peep dem n' tha self-loathang would back up his cold-ass throat up in a funky-ass bitta wave, even stronger than tha taste of brew n' blunts n' martinis-martians, as Al called dem wild-ass muthafuckas. Those was tha times dat his crazy-ass mind would turn thoughtfully n' sanely ta tha glock or tha rope or tha razor blade.

If tha bender had occurred on a weeknight, da thug would chill fo' three hours, git up, dress, chew four Excedrins, n' go off ta teach his nine o'clock Gangsta Poets still faded. Dope morning, kids, todizzle tha Red-Eyed Wonder is goin ta rap bout how tha fuck Longfellow lost his hoe up in tha big-ass fire.

Dude hadn't believed da thug was a alcoholic, Jack thought as Al's telephone fuckin started ringin up in his wild lil' fuckin ear. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Da classes dat schmoooove muthafucka had missed or taught unshaven, still reekin of last night's martians. Not me, I can stop anytime. Da nights he n' Wendy had passed up in separate beds. Listen, I'm fine. Mashed fenders. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Sheezy I'm aiiight ta drive. Da tears she always shed up in tha bathroom. Cautious looks from his colleagues at any jam where brew was served, even dat schmoooooove alcatronic shit. Da slowly dawnin realization dat da thug was bein talked about. Da knowledge dat da thug was producin not a god damn thang at his Underwood but ballz of mostly blank paper dat ended up in tha wastebasket yo. Dude had been suttin' of a cold-ass lil catch fo' Stovington, a slowly bloomin Gangsta writa like, n' certainly a playa well qualified ta teach dat pimped out mystery, creatizzle writin yo. Dude had published two dozen short stories yo. Dude was hustlin on a play, n' thought there might be a novel incubatin up in some menstrual back room. But now da thug was not producin n' his cold-ass teachin had become erratic.

It had finally ended one night less than a month afta Jack had fucked up his son's arm. That, it seemed ta him, had ended his crazy-ass marriage fo' realz. All dat remained was fo' Wendy ta gather her will... if her mutha hadn't been such a grade A biiiatch, he knew, Wendy would have taken a funky-ass bus back ta New Hampshizzle as soon as Danny had been aiiight ta travel. Dat shiznit was over.

It had been a lil past midnight. Jack n' Al was comin tha fuck into Barre on U. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. S. 31, Al behind tha wheel of his Jag, shiftin fancily on tha curves, sometimes crossin tha double yellow line. They was both straight-up faded; tha martians had landed dat night up in force. They came round tha last curve before tha bridge at seventy, n' there was a kid's bike up in tha road, n' then tha sharp, hurt squealin as rubber shredded from tha Jag's tires, n' Jack remembered seein Al's grill loomin over tha steerin wheel like a round white moon. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Then tha jinglin crashin sound as they hit tha bike at forty, n' it had flown up like a funky-ass bent n' twisted bird, tha handlebars strikin tha windshield, n' then dat shiznit was up in tha air again, leavin tha starred safety glass up in front of Jack's bulgin eyes fo' realz. A moment lata dat schmoooove muthafucka heard tha final dreadful smash as it landed on tha road behind dem wild-ass muthafuckas. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Somethang thumped underneath dem as tha tires passed over dat shit. Da Jag drifted round broadside, Al still jockeyin tha wheel, n' from far away Jack heard his dirty ass saying: "Jesus, Al. We ran his ass down. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I felt dat shit."

In his wild lil' fuckin ear tha beeper kept ringing. Come on, Al. Be home. Let me git dis over with.

Al had brought tha hoopty ta a tokin halt not mo' than three feet from a funky-ass bridge stanchion. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Two of tha Jag's tires was flat. They had left zigzaggin loopz of burned rubber fo' a hundred n' thirty Nikes. They looked at each other fo' a moment n' then ran back up in tha cold darkness.

Da bike was straight-up ruined. One wheel was gone, n' lookin back over his shoulder Al had peeped it lyin up in tha middle of tha road, half a thugged-out dozen spokes stickin up like piano wire fo' realz. Al had holla'd hesitantly: "I be thinkin that's what tha fuck we ran over, Tacky-boy."

"Then where's tha kid?"

"Did yo dirty ass peep a kid?"

Jack frowned. Well shiiiit, it had all happened wit such wild-ass speed. Comin round tha corner n' shit. Da bike loomin up in tha Jag's headlights fo' realz. Al yellin something. Then tha collision n' tha long skid.

They moved tha bike ta one shoulder of tha road. Al went back ta tha Jag n' put on its four-way flashers. For tha next two minutes they searched tha sidez of tha road, rockin a bangin four-cell flashlight. Nothang fo' realz. Although dat shiznit was late, nuff muthafuckin rides passed tha beached Jaguar n' tha two pimps wit tha bobbin flashlight. None of dem stopped. Jack thought lata dat some queer providence, bent on givin dem both a last chance, had kept tha cops away, had kept any of tha passersby from callin dem wild-ass muthafuckas.

At quarta past two they moonwalked back ta tha Jag, sober but queasy. "If there was no muthafucka ridin it, what tha fuck was it bustin up in tha middle of tha road?" Al demanded. "It wasn't parked on tha side; dat shiznit was right up in tha fuckin middle!"

Jack could only shake his head.

"Yo crazy-ass jam do not answer," tha operator holla'd. "Would you like me ta keep on trying?"

"A couple mo' rings, operator. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Do you mind?"

"Fuck dat shit, sir," tha voice holla'd dutifully.

Come on, Al!

Al had hiked across tha bridge ta tha nearest pay phone, called a funky-ass bachelor playa n' holla'd at his ass it would be worth fifty dollars if tha playa would git tha Jag's snow tires outta tha garage n' brang dem down ta tha Highway 31 bridge outside of Barre. Da playa flossed up twenty minutes later, bustin a pair of jeans n' his thugged-out lil' pajama top yo. Dude surveyed tha scene.

"Bust a cap up in anybody?" he asked.

Al was already jackin up tha back of tha hoopty n' Jack was loosenin lug nuts, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. "Providentially, no one," Al holla'd.

"I be thinkin I'll just head on back anyway. Pay me up in tha morning."

"Fine," Al holla'd without lookin up.

Da two of dem had gotten tha tires on without incident, n' together they drove back ta AI Shockley's crib fo' realz. Al put tha Jag up in tha garage n' capped tha motor.

In tha dark on tha down-low da perved-out muthafucka holla'd: "I'm off drinking, Jacky-boy. It's all over n' shit. I've slain mah last martian."

And now, sweatin up in dis phonebootb, it occurred ta lack dat dat schmoooove muthafucka had never doubted Al's mobilitizzle ta carry all up in cause I gots dem finger-lickin' chickens wit tha siz-auce yo. Dude had driven back ta his own doggy den up in tha VW wit tha radio turned up, n' some disco crew chanted over n' over again, talismanic up in tha doggy den before dawn: Do it anyway... you wanta do dat shit... do it anyway you want... No matta how tha fuck bangin dat schmoooove muthafucka heard tha squealin tires, tha crash. When his thugged-out lil' punk-ass blinked his wild lil' fuckin eyes shut, da perved-out muthafucka saw dat single crushed wheel wit its fucked up spokes pointin all up in tha sky.

When he gots in, Wendy was asleep on tha couch yo. Dude looked up in Danny's room n' Danny was up in his crib on his back, chillin deeply, his thugged-out arm still buried up in tha cast. In tha softly filtered glow from tha streetlight outside his schmoooove ass could peep tha dark lines on its plastered whitenizz where all tha doctors n' nurses up in pediatrics had signed dat shit.

Dat shiznit was a accident yo. Dude fell tha fuck down tha stairs.

(o you dirty liar)

Dat shiznit was a accident. l lost mah temper.

(you fuckin fadeden waste god wiped snot outta his nozzle n' dat was you)

Listen, hey, come on, please, just a accident-

But tha last plea was driven away by tha image of dat bobbin flashlight as they hunted all up in tha dry late November weeds, lookin fo' tha sprawled body dat by all phat muthafuckin rights should done been there, waitin fo' tha police. Well shiiiit, it didn't matta dat Al had been driving. There had been other nights when dat schmoooove muthafucka had been driving.

Dude pulled tha covers up over Danny, went tha fuck into they bedroom, n' took tha Spanish Llama. 38 down from tha top shelf of tha closet. Dat shiznit was up in a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shoe box yo. Dude sat on tha bed wit it fo' nearly a hour, lookin at it, fascinated by its deadly shine.

Dat shiznit was dawn when he put it back up in tha box n' put tha box back up in tha closet.

That mornin dat schmoooove muthafucka had called Bruckner, tha department head, n' holla'd at his ass ta please post his classes yo. Dude had tha flu fo'sho. Bruckner agreed, wit less phat grace than was common. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Jack Torrizzle had been mad susceptible ta tha flu up in tha last year.

Wendy made his ass scrambled eggs n' coffee. They ate up in silence. Da only sound came from tha back yard, where Danny was gleefully hustlin his cold-ass trucks across tha sand pile wit his wild lil' freakadelic phat hand.

Bitch went ta do tha dishes yo. Her back ta him, her big-ass booty holla'd: "Jack. I've been thinking."

"Have yo slick ass?" Dude lit a cold-ass lil blunt wit tremblin hands. No hangover dis morning, oddly enough cause I gots dem finger-lickin' chickens wit tha siz-auce. Only tha shakes yo. Dude blinked. In tha instant's darknizz tha bike flew up against tha windshield, starrin tha glass. Da tires shrieked. Da flashlight bobbed.

"I wanna rap ta you about... bout what's dopest fo' me n' Danny. For you too, maybe. I don't know. We should have talked bout it before, I guess."

"Would you do suttin' fo' me son?" he asked, lookin all up in tha waverin tip of his blunt. "Would you do me a gangbangin' favor?"

"What?" Her voice was dull n' neutral. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack yo. Dude looked at her back.

"Let's rap bout it a week from todizzle. It make me wanna hollar playa! If you still want to...,

Now dat dunkadelic hoe turned ta him, her handz lacy wit suds, her pretty grill pale n' disillusioned. "Jack, promises don't work wit you, biatch. Yo ass just go right on with-"

Bitch stopped, lookin up in his wild lil' fuckin eyes, fascinated, suddenly uncertain.

"In a week," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. His voice had lost all its strength n' dropped ta a whisper n' shit. "Please. I'm not promisin anything. If you still wanna rap then, we'll rap fo' realz. Bout anythang you want."

They looked across tha sunny kitchen at each other fo' a long-ass time, n' when dat dunkadelic hoe turned back ta tha dishes without sayin anythang more, his thugged-out lil' punk-ass fuckin started ta shudder n' shit. God, he needed a thugged-out drink. Just a lil pick-me-up ta put thangs up in they legit perspective-

"Danny holla'd da ruffneck dreamed you had a cold-ass lil hoopty accident," her big-ass booty holla'd abruptly. "Dude has funky trips sometimes yo. Dude holla'd it dis morning, when I gots his ass dressed. Did you, Jack, biatch? Did yo dirty ass have a accident?"

"No."

By noon tha cravin fo' a thugged-out drank had become a low-grade fever n' shiznit yo. Dude went ta Al's.

"Yo ass dry?" Al axed before lettin his ass in. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. Al looked horrible.

"Bone dry. Yo ass be lookin like Lon Chaney up in Phantom of tha Opera."

"Come on in."

They played two-handed whist all afternoon. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. They didn't drink.

A week passed. Dude n' Wendy didn't drop a rhyme much. But he knew dat biiiiatch was watching, not believin yo. Dude drank fruity-ass malt liquor black n' endless canz of Coca-Cola. One night da ruffneck drank a whole six-pack of Coke n' then ran tha fuck into tha bathroom n' vomited it up. Da level of tha bottlez up in tha liquor cabinet did not go down. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. Afta his classes da thug went over ta Al Shockley's-she hated Al Shockley worse than dat freaky freaky biatch had eva hated mah playas-and when his schmoooove ass came home dat biiiiatch would swear her big-ass booty smelled scotch or gin on his breath yo, but da thug would rap lucidly ta her before supper, drank coffee, fuck wit Danny afta supper, pluggin a Coke wit him, read his ass a funky-ass bedtime story, then sit n' erect themes wit cup afta cup of black fruity-ass malt liquor by his hand, n' dat biiiiatch would gotta admit ta her muthafuckin ass dat dat freaky freaky biatch had been wrong.

Weeks passed n' tha unspoken word retreated further from tha back of her lips. Jack sensed its retirement but knew it would never retire straight-up. Things fuckin started ta git a lil easier n' shit. Then George Hatfield. Dude had lost his cold-ass temper again, dis time stone sober.

"Sir, yo' jam still don't-"

"Hello?" Al's voice, outta breath.

"Go ahead," tha operator holla'd dourly.

"Al, dis is Jack Torrance."

"Jacky-boy!" Genuine pleasure. "Wuz crackalackin' yo?"

"Good. I be fly as a gangbangin' falcon, soarin all up in tha sky dawwwwg! I just called ta say props. I gots tha thang. It's perfect. If I can't finish dat goddam play snowed up in all winter, I'll never finish dat shit."

"You'll finish."

"How tha fuck is thangs?" Jack axed hesitantly.

"Dry," Al responded. "You?"

"As a funky-ass bone."

"Miss it much?"

"Every day."

Al laughed. "I know dat scene. But I don't know how tha fuck you stayed dry afta dat Hatfield thang, Jack. That was above n' beyond."

"I straight-up biiiatched thangs up fo' mah dirty ass," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd evenly.

"Oh, hell. I'll have tha Board round by spring. Effinger's already sayin they might done been too hasty fo' realz. And if dat play comes ta something-"

"Yes yes y'all. Listen, mah boy's up in tha car, Al yo. Dude be lookin like he might be gettin restless-"

"Sure. Understand. Yo ass gotz a phat winta up there, Jack. Glad ta help."

"Thanks again, Al." Dude hung up, closed his wild lil' fuckin eyes up in tha bangin' booth, n' again n' again n' again saw tha crashin bike, tha bobbin flashlight. There had been a squib up in tha paper tha next day, no mo' than a space-filla straight-up yo, but tha balla had not been named. Why it had been up there up in tha night would always be a mystery ta them, n' like dat was as it should be.

Dude went back up ta tha hoopty n' gave Danny his slightly melted Baby Ruth.

"Daddy?"

"What, doc?"

Danny hesitated, lookin at his wild lil' father's abstracted face.

"When I was waitin fo' you ta come back from dat hotel, I had a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shitty-ass dream. Do you remember, biatch? When I fell tha fuck asleep?"

"Um-hm."

But dat shiznit was no good. I be fly as a gangbangin' falcon, soarin all up in tha sky dawwwwg! Daddy's mind was someplace else, not wit his muthafuckin ass. Thinkin bout tha Shiznitty Thin again.

(I dreamed dat you hurt me, Daddy)

"What was tha dream, doc?"

"Nothing," Danny holla'd as they pulled up tha fuck into tha parkin lot yo. Dude put tha maps back tha fuck into tha gludd compartment.

"Yo ass sure?"

"Yes yes y'all."

Jack gave his fuckin lil hustla a gangbangin' faint, shitd glance; n' then his crazy-ass mind turned ta his thugged-out lil' play.

Chapta 6. Night Thoughts
Ludd was over, n' her playa was chillin beside her muthafuckin ass.

Her man.

Bitch smiled a lil up in tha darkness, his seed still tricklin wit slow warmth from between her slightly parted fat-ass thighs, n' her smile was both rueful n' pleased, cuz tha phrase her playa summoned up a hundred vibe. Each feelin examined ridin' solo was a funky-ass bewilderment. Together, up in dis darknizz floatin ta chill, they was like a gangbangin' finger-lickin' distant blues tune heard up in a almost deserted night club, melancholy but pleasing.

Lovin' you baby, is just like rollin' off a log,

But if I can't be yo' biatch, I shizzle ain't goin' ta be yo' dog.

Had dat been Bizzleie Holiday, biatch? Or one of mah thugs mo' prosaic like Peggy Lee, biatch? Didn't matter n' shit. Dat shiznit was low n' torchy, n' up in tha silence of her head it played mellowly, as if issuin from one of dem old-fashioned jukeboxes, a Wurlitzer, like, half a minute before closing.

Now, movin away from her consciousness, dat biiiiatch wondered how tha fuck nuff bedz dat freaky freaky biatch had slept up in wit dis playa beside her n' shit. They had kicked it wit up in college n' had first made ludd up in his crib... dat had been less than three months afta her mutha drove her from tha house, holla'd at her never ta come back, dat if dat biiiiatch wanted ta go somewhere dat thugged-out biiiatch could git all up in her daddy since dat freaky freaky biatch had been responsible fo' tha divorce. That shitty been up in 1970. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So long ago, biatch? A semesta lata they had moved up in together, had found thangs fo' tha summer, n' had kept tha crib when they ballin' year fuckin started. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch remembered dat bed da most thugged-out clearly, a funky-ass big-ass double dat sagged up in tha middle. When they made love, tha rusty box sprang had counted tha beats, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. That fall dat freaky freaky biatch had finally managed ta break from her mutha n' shit. Jack had helped her n' shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch wants ta keep whoopin you, Jack had holla'd. Da mo' times you beeper her, tha mo' times you crawl back beggin forgiveness, tha mo' dat thugged-out biiiatch can beat you wit yo' daddy n' shit. It's phat fo' her, Wendy, cuz dat thugged-out biiiatch can go on makin believe dat shiznit was yo' fault. But it's not phat fo' you, biatch. They had talked it over again n' again n' again n' again n' again n' again up in dat bed, dat year.

(Jack chillin up wit tha covers pooled round his waist, a cold-ass lil blunt burnin between his wild lil' fingers, lookin her up in tha eye-he had a half-humorous, halfscowlin way of bustin that-tellin her: Biatch holla'd at you never ta come back, right, biatch? Never ta darken her door again, right, biatch? Then why don't dat freaky freaky biatch hang up tha beeper when she knows it's yo slick ass, biatch? Why do she only rap dat you can't come up in if I'm wit yo slick ass, biatch? Because dat dunkadelic hoe be thinkin I might cramp her steez a lil bit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch wants ta keep puttin tha thumbscrews right ta you, baby. You're a gangbangin' fool if you keep lettin her do dat shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch holla'd at you never ta come back, so why don't you take her at her word, biatch? Give it a rest fo' realz. And at last she'd peeped it his way.)

It had been Jack's scam ta separate fo' a while-to git perspectizzle on tha relationshizzle, da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. Biatch had been afraid dat schmoooove muthafucka had become horny bout one of mah thugs. Lata she found it wasn't so. They was together again n' again n' again up in tha sprang n' he axed her if dat freaky freaky biatch had been ta peep her daddy n' shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch had jumped as if he'd struck her wit a quirt.

How tha fuck did you know that?

Da Shadow knows.

Has you done been spyin on me son?

And his crazy-ass muthafuckin impatient laughter, which had always made her feel so awkward-as if dat biiiiatch was eight n' da thug was able ta peep her motivations mo' clearly than she.

Yo ass needed time, Wendy.

For what?

I guess... ta peep which one of our asses you wanted ta fuck.

Jack, what tha fuck is you saying?

I be thinkin I'm proposin marriage.

Da weddin yo. Her daddy had been there, her mutha had not been. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch discovered dat thugged-out biiiatch could live wit that, if dat freaky freaky biatch had Jack. Then Danny had come, her fine son.

That had been tha dopest year, tha dopest bed. Afta Danny was born, Jack had gotten her a thang typin fo' half a thugged-out dozen Gangsta Department profs-quizzes, exams, class syllabi, study notes, readin lists, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch ended up tvpin a novel fo' one of them, a novel dat never gots published... much ta Jack's straight-up irreverent n' straight-up private glee. Da thang was phat fo' forty a week, n' skyrocketed all tha way up ta sixty durin tha two months her dope ass dropped typin tha unsuccessful novel. They had they first car, a gangbangin' five-year-old Buick wit a funky-ass baby seat up in tha middle. Bright, upwardly mobile lil' marrieds. Danny forced a reconciliation between her n' her mother, a reconciliation dat was always tense n' never aiiight yo, but a reconciliation all tha same. When dat dunkadelic hoe took Danny ta tha house, dat biiiiatch went without Jack fo' realz. And her dope ass didn't tell Jack dat her mutha always remade Danny's diapers, frowned over his wild lil' formula, could always spot tha accusatory first signz of a rash on tha baby's bottom or privates yo. Her mutha never holla'd anythang overtly yo, but tha message came all up in anyway: tha price dat freaky freaky biatch had begun ta pay (and maybe always would) fo' tha reconciliation was tha feelin dat dat biiiiatch was a inadequate mutha n' shit. Dat shiznit was her mother's way of keepin tha thumbscrews handy.

Durin tha minutes Wendy would stay home n' housewife, feedin Danny his bottlez up in tha sunwashed kitchen of tha four-room second-story crib, playin her recordz on tha battered portable stereo dat freaky freaky biatch had had since high school. Jack would come home at three (or at two if he felt his schmoooove ass could cut his fuckin last class), n' while Danny slept da thug would lead her tha fuck into tha bedroom n' fearz of inadequacy would be erased.

At night while dat dunkadelic hoe typed, da thug would do his wild lil' freestylin n' his thugged-out assignments, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. In dem minutes her big-ass booty sometimes came outta tha bedroom where tha typewrita was ta find both of dem asleep on tha basement couch, Jack bustin not a god damn thang but his underpants, Danny sprawled comfortably on her homeboy's chest wit his cold-ass thumb up in his crazy-ass grill. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch would put Danny up in his crib, then read whatever Jack had freestyled dat night before wakin his ass up enough ta come ta bed.

Da dopest bed, tha dopest year.

Sun gonna shine up in mah backyard someday...

In dem days, Jack's drankin had still been well up in hand. On Saturdizzle nights a funky-ass bunch of his wild lil' fellow hustlas would drop over n' there would be a cold-ass lil case of brew n' discussions up in which her big-ass booty seldom took part cuz her field had been sociologizzle n' his was Gangsta: arguments over whether Pepys's diaries was literature or history; discussionz of Charlez Olson's poetry; sometimes tha readin of works up in progress. Those n' a hundred others. Fuck dat shit, a thousand. Biatch felt no real urge ta take part; dat shiznit was enough ta sit up in her rockin chair beside Jack, whoz ass sat cross-legged on tha floor, one hand holdin a funky-ass brew, tha other gently cuppin her calf or braceletin her ankle.

Da competizzle at UNH had been fierce, n' Jack carried a extra burden up in his writin yo. Dude put up in at least a minute at it every last muthafuckin night. Dat shiznit was his bangin routine. Da Saturdizzle sessions was necessary therapy. They let suttin' outta his ass dat might otherwise have swelled n' swelled until his thugged-out lil' punk-ass burst.

At tha end of his wild lil' freakadelic grad work dat schmoooove muthafucka had landed tha thang at Stovington, mostly on tha strength of his stories-four of dem published at dat time, one of dem up in Esquire. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch remembered dat dizzle clearly enough; it would take mo' than three muthafuckin years ta forget dat shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch had almost thrown tha envelope away, thankin dat shiznit was a subscription offer n' shit. Openin it, dat freaky freaky biatch had found instead dat dat shiznit was a letta sayin dat Esquire wanna use Jack's rap "Concernin tha Black Holes" early tha followin year. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. They would pay nine hundred dollars, not on publication but on acceptance. That was nearly half a year's take typin papers n' dat freaky freaky biatch had flown ta tha telephone, leavin Danny up in his high chair ta goggle comically afta her, his wild lil' grill lathered wit creamed peas n' beef puree.

Jack had arrived from tha universitizzle forty-five minutes later, tha Buick weighted down wit seven playaz n' a keg of brew n' shiznit fo' realz. Afta a cold-ass lil ceremonial toast (Wendy also had a glass, although she ordinarily had no taste fo' brew), Jack had signed tha acceptizzle letter, put it up in tha return envelope, n' went down tha block ta drop it up in tha letta box. When his schmoooove ass came back da perved-out muthafucka stood gravely up in tha door n' holla'd, "Veni, vidi, vici." There was cheers n' applause. When tha keg was empty at eleven dat night, Jack n' tha only two others whoz ass was still ambulatory went on ta hit all dem bars.

Bitch had gotten his ass aside up in tha downstairs hallway. Da other two was already up in tha car, fadedenly rappin tha New Hampshizzle fight song. Jack was down on one knee, owlishly fumblin wit tha lacingz of his crazy-ass moccasins.

"Jack," her big-ass booty holla'd, "you shouldn't. Yo ass can't even tie yo' shoes, let ridin' solo drive."

Dude stood up n' put his handz calmly on her shoulders. "Tonight I could fly ta tha moon if I wanted to."

"No," her big-ass booty holla'd. "Not fo' all tha Esquire stories up in tha ghetto. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass."

"I'll be home early."

But dat schmoooove muthafucka hadn't been home until four up in tha morning, stumblin n' mumblin his way up tha stairs, wakin Danny up when his schmoooove ass came in. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude had tried ta soothe tha baby n' dropped his ass on tha floor. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Wendy had rushed out, thankin of what tha fuck her mutha would be thinkin if her big-ass booty saw tha bruise before dat dunkadelic hoe thought of anythang else- Dogg help her, Dogg help dem both-and then picked Danny up, sat up in tha rockin chair wit him, soothed his muthafuckin ass. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch had been thankin of her mutha fo' most of tha five minutes Jack had been gone, her mother's prophecy dat Jack would never come ta anything. Big ideas, her mutha had holla'd. Sure. Da welfare lines is full of constipated fools wit big-ass ideas. Did tha Esquire rap make her mutha wack or right, biatch? Winnifred, you're not holdin dat baby right. Give his ass ta mah dirty ass fo' realz. And was she not holdin her homeboy right, biatch? Why else would tha pimpin' muthafucka take his joy outta tha house, biatch? A helpless kind of terror had risen up in her n' it never occurred ta her dat dat schmoooove muthafucka had gone up fo' reasons dat had not a god damn thang ta do wit her muthafuckin ass.

"Congratulations," her big-ass booty holla'd, rockin Danny-he was almost asleep again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. "Maybe you gave his ass a cold-ass lil concussion."

"It's just a funky-ass bruise." Dude sounded sulky, wantin ta be repentant: a lil boy. For a instant dat freaky freaky biatch hated his muthafuckin ass.

"Maybe," her big-ass booty holla'd tightly. "Maybe not." Biatch heard so much of her mutha poppin' off ta her departed daddy up in her own voice dat dat biiiiatch was sickened n' afraid.

"Like mutha like daughter," Jack muttered.

"Go ta bed!" dat thugged-out biiiatch cried, her fear comin up soundin like anger n' shit. "Go ta bed, you're faded!"

"Don't tell me what tha fuck ta do."

"Jack... please, we shouldn't... dat shit..." There was no lyrics.

"Don't tell me what tha fuck ta do," he repeated sullenly, n' then went tha fuck into tha bedroom. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch was left ridin' solo up in tha rockin chair wit Danny, whoz ass was chillin again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Five minutes lata Jack's snores came floatin up ta tha livin room. That had been tha straight-up original gangsta night dat freaky freaky biatch had slept on tha couch.

Now dat dunkadelic hoe turned restlessly on tha bed, already dozin yo. Her mind, freed of any linear order by encroachin chill, floated past tha straight-up original gangsta year at Stovington, past tha steadily worsenin times dat had reached low ebb when her homeboy had fucked up Danny's arm, ta dat mornin up in tha breakfast nook.

Danny outside playin trucks up in tha sandpile, his thugged-out arm still up in tha cast. Jack chillin all up in tha table, pallid n' grizzled, a cold-ass lil blunt jitterin between his wild lil' fingers. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch had decided ta ask his ass fo' a gangbangin' finger-lickin' divorce. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch had pondered tha question from a hundred different angles, had been ponderin it up in fact fo' tha six months before tha fucked up arm. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch holla'd at her muthafuckin ass dat biiiiatch would have made tha decision long ago if it hadn't been fo' Danny yo, but not even dat was necessarily true. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch dreamed on tha long nights when Jack was out, n' her trips was alwayz of her mother's grill n' of her own wedding.

(Dum diddy-dum, here I come biaaatch! Who tha fuck giveth dis biatch? Her daddy standin up in his dopest suit which was none too good-he was a travelin salesman fo' a line of canned loot dat even then was goin broke-and his cold-ass chillaxed face, how tha fuck oldschool he looked, how tha fuck pale: I do.)

Even afta tha accident-if you could call it a accident-she had not been able ta brang all dat shiznit tha way out, ta admit dat her marriage was a lopsided defeat. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch had waited, dumbly hopin dat a miracle would occur n' Jack would peep what tha fuck was happening, not only ta his ass but ta her n' shit. But there had been no slowdown. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. A drank before goin off ta tha Academy. Two or three brews wit lunch all up in tha Stovington House. Three or four martinis before dinner n' shit. Five or six mo' while gradin papers. Da weekendz was worse. Da nights up wit Al Shockley was worse still. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch had never dreamed there could be all kindsa much pain up in a game when there was not a god damn thang physically wrong. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch hurt all tha time yo. How tha fuck much of dat shiznit was her fault, biatch? That question hustled her n' shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch felt like her mutha n' shit. Like her daddy n' shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Sometimes, when she felt like her muthafuckin ass dat biiiiatch wondered what tha fuck it would be like fo' Danny, n' her dope ass dreaded tha dizzle when he grew oldschool enough ta lay blame fo' realz. And dat biiiiatch wondered where they would go. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch had no diggity her mutha would take her in, n' no diggity dat afta a year of watchin her diapers remade, Danny's meals recooked and/or redistributed, of comin home ta find his threadz chizzled or his afro cut or tha books her mutha found unsuitable spirited away ta some limbo up in tha attic... afta half a year of that, dat biiiiatch would gotz a cold-ass lil complete straight-up trippin breakdown. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. And her mutha would pat her hand n' say comfortingly, Although it's not yo' fault, it's all yo' own fault. Yo ass was never ready. Yo ass flossed yo' legit flavas when you came between yo' daddy n' mah dirty ass.

My fuckin father, Danny's daddy n' shit. Mine, his.

(Dum diddy-dum, here I come biaaatch! Who tha fuck giveth dis biatch? I do. Dead of a ass battle six months later.)

Da night before dat mornin dat freaky freaky biatch had lain awake almost until his schmoooove ass came in, thinking, comin ta her decision.

Da divorce was necessary, dat dunkadelic hoe holla'd at her muthafuckin ass yo. Her mutha n' daddy didn't belong up in tha decision. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Neither did her vibe of guilt over they marriage nor her vibe of inadequacy over her own. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Dat shiznit was necessary fo' her son's sake, n' fo' her muthafuckin ass, if dat biiiiatch was ta salvage anythang at all from her early adulthood. I be fly as a gangbangin' falcon, soarin all up in tha sky dawwwwg! Da handwritin on tha wall was brutal but clear yo. Her homeboy was a lush yo. Dude had a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shitty-ass temper, one his schmoooove ass could no longer keep wholly under control now dat da thug was drankin so heavily n' his wild lil' freestylin was goin so badly fo' realz. Accidentally or not accidentally, dat schmoooove muthafucka had fucked up Danny's arm yo. Dude was goin ta lose his thang, if not dis year then tha year afta n' shiznit fo' realz. Already dat freaky freaky biatch had noticed tha sympathetic looks from tha other faculty wives. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch holla'd at her muthafuckin ass dat dat freaky freaky biatch had stuck wit tha messy thang of her marriage fo' as long as dat thugged-out biiiatch could. Now dat biiiiatch would gotta leave dat shit. Jack could have full visitation rights, n' dat biiiiatch would want support from his ass only until dat thugged-out biiiatch could find suttin' n' git on her feet-and dat would gotta be fairly rapidly cuz her dope ass didn't know how tha fuck long Jack would be able ta pay support scrilla. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch would do it wit as lil bitternizz as possible. But it had ta end.

So thinking, dat freaky freaky biatch had fallen off tha fuck into her own thin n' unrestful chill, hustled by tha facez of her own mutha n' daddy n' shit. You're not a god damn thang but a home-wrecker, her mutha holla'd. Dum diddy-dum, here I come biaaatch! Who tha fuck giveth this, biatch? tha minista holla'd. I do, her daddy holla'd. But up in tha bright n' sunny mornin she felt tha same yo. Her back ta him, her handz plunged up in warm dishwata up ta tha wrists, dat freaky freaky biatch had commenced wit tha unpleasantness.

"I wanna rap ta you bout suttin' dat might be dopest fo' Danny n' I. For you too, maybe. We should have talked bout it before, I guess."

And then dat schmoooove muthafucka had holla'd a odd thang. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch had sposed ta fuckin discover his thugged-out anger, ta provoke tha bitterness, tha recriminations. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch had expected a mad dash fo' tha liquor cabinet. But not dis soft, almost toneless reply dat was so unlike his muthafuckin ass. Dat shiznit was almost as though tha Jack dat freaky freaky biatch had lived wit fo' six muthafuckin years had never come back last night-as if dat schmoooove muthafucka had been replaced by some unearthly doppelganger dat dat biiiiatch would never know or be like shizzle of.

"Would you do suttin' fo' me son, biatch? A favor?"

"What?" Biatch had ta discipline her voice strictly ta keep it from trembling.

"Let's rap bout it up in a week. If you still want to"

And dat freaky freaky biatch had agreed. Well shiiiit, it remained unspoken between dem wild-ass muthafuckas. Durin dat week dat schmoooove muthafucka had peeped Al Shockley mo' than ever yo, but his schmoooove ass came home early n' there was no liquor on his breath. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch imagined her big-ass booty smelled it yo, but knew it wasn't so fo' realz. Another week fo' realz. And another.

Divorce went back ta committee, unvoted on.

What had happened, biatch? Biatch still wondered n' still had not tha slightest idea. Da subject was taboo between dem wild-ass muthafuckas yo. Dude was like a playa whoz ass had leaned round a cold-ass lil corner n' had peeped a unexpected monsta lyin up in wait, crouchin among tha dried bonez of its oldschool kills. Da liquor remained up in tha cabinet yo, but da ruffneck didn't bust a nut on dat shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch had considered throwin dem up a thugged-out dozen times but up in tha end always backed away from tha idea, as if some unknown charm would be fucked up by tha act.

And there was Danny's part up in it ta consider.

If she felt her dope ass didn't know her homeboy, then dat biiiiatch was up in awe of her child-awe up in tha strict meanin of dat word: a kind of undefined superstitious dread.

Dozin lightly, tha image of tha instant of his birth was presented ta her n' shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch was again n' again n' again lyin on tha delivery table, bathed up in sweat, her afro up in strings, her feet splayed up in tha stirrups

(and a lil high from tha gas they kept givin her whiffs of; at one point dat freaky freaky biatch had muttered dat she felt like a advertisement fo' gang rape, n' tha nurse, a oldschool bird whoz ass had assisted all up in tha birthz of enough lil pimps ta populate a high school, found dat mad funky)

the doctor between her legs, tha nurse off ta one side, arrangin instruments n' humming. Da sharp, glassy pains had been comin at steadily shortenin intervals, n' nuff muthafuckin times dat freaky freaky biatch had screamed up in spite of her shame.

Then tha doctor holla'd at her like sternly dat she must PUSH, n' her dope ass did, n' then she felt suttin' bein taken from her n' shit. Dat shiznit was a cold-ass lil clear n' distinct feeling, one dat biiiiatch would never forget-the thang taken. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Then tha doctor held her lil hustla up by tha legs-she had peeped his cold-ass tiny sex n' known da thug was a funky-ass pimp immediatelyand as tha doctor groped fo' tha airmask, dat freaky freaky biatch had peeped suttin' else, suttin' so wack dat she found tha strength ta scream again n' again n' again afta dat freaky freaky biatch had thought all screams was used up:

Dude has no grill biaatch!

But of course there had been a gangbangin' face, Danny's own dope face, n' tha caul dat had covered it at birth now resided up in a lil' small-ass jar which dat freaky freaky biatch had kept, almost shamefully. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch did not hold wit oldschool superstizzle yo, but dat freaky freaky biatch had kept tha caul nevertheless. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch did not hold wit wives' talez yo, but tha pimp had been unusual from tha first. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch did not believe up in second sight but-

Did Daddy have a accident, biatch? I dreamed Daddy had a accident.

Somethang had chizzled his muthafuckin ass. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch didn't believe dat shiznit was just her gettin locked n loaded ta ask fo' a gangbangin' finger-lickin' divorce dat had done dat shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Somethang had happened before dat morning. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Somethang dat had happened while her big-ass booty slept uneasily fo' realz. Al Shockley holla'd dat not a god damn thang had happened, not a god damn thang at all yo, but dat schmoooove muthafucka had averted his wild lil' fuckin eyes when da perved-out muthafucka holla'd it, n' if you believed faculty ghetto hype, Al had also climbed aboard tha fabled wagon.

Did Daddy have a accident?

Maybe a cold-ass lil chizzle collision wit fate, surely not a god damn thang much mo' concrete. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch had read dat day's paper n' tha next day's wit a cold-ass lil closer eye than usual yo, but her big-ass booty saw not a god damn thang dat thugged-out biiiatch could hook tha fuck up wit Jack. Dogg help her, dat freaky freaky biatch had been lookin fo' a hit-and-run accident or a funky-ass barroom brawl dat had resulted up in straight-up fuck-ups or... whoz ass knew, biatch? Dum diddy-dum, here I come biaaatch! Who tha fuck wanted to, biatch? But no policeman came ta call, either ta ask thangs or wit a warrant empowerin his ass ta take paint scrapings from tha WV's bumpers. Nothing. Only her homeboy's one hundred n' eighty degree chizzle n' her son's chilly question on waking:

Did Daddy have a accident, biatch? I dreamed...

Bitch had stuck wit Jack mo' fo' Danny's sake than dat biiiiatch would admit up in her wakin hours yo, but now, chillin lightly, dat thugged-out biiiatch could admit it: Danny had been Jack's fo' tha asking, almost from tha first. Just as dat freaky freaky biatch had been her father's, almost from tha first. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch couldn't remember Danny eva spittin a funky-ass forty back on Jack's shirt. Jack could git his ass ta smoke afta dat freaky freaky biatch had given up in disgust, even when Danny was teethang n' it gave his ass visible pain ta chew. When Danny had a stomachache, dat biiiiatch would rock his ass fo' a minute before his thugged-out lil' punk-ass fuckin started ta on tha fuckin' down-low; Jack had only ta pick his ass up, strutt twice round tha room wit him, n' Danny would be asleep on lack's shoulder, his cold-ass thumb securely corked up in his crazy-ass grill.

Dude hadn't minded changin diapers, even dem his schmoooove ass called tha special deliveries yo. Dude sat wit Danny fo' minutes on end, bouncin his ass on his fuckin lap, playin finger game wit him, makin faces at his ass while Danny poked at his nozzle n' then collapsed wit tha gigglez yo. Dude made formulas n' administered dem faultlessly, gettin up every last muthafuckin last burp afterward. Dude would take Danny wit his ass up in tha hoopty ta git tha paper or a funky-ass forty of gin n juice or nails all up in tha hardware store even when they lil hustla was still a infant yo. Dude had taken Danny ta a StovingtonKeene soccer match when Danny was only six months old, n' Danny had sat motionlessly on his wild lil' father's lap all up in tha whole game, wrapped up in a funky-ass blanket, a lil' small-ass Stovington pennant clutched up in one chubby fist.

Dude loved his crazy-ass mutha but da thug was his wild lil' father's boy.

And hadn't she felt, time n' time again, her son's wordless opposizzle ta tha whole scam of divorce, biatch? Biatch would be thankin bout it up in tha kitchen, turnin it over up in her mind as dat dunkadelic hoe turned tha potatoes fo' supper over up in her handz fo' tha peeler's blade fo' realz. And dat biiiiatch would turn round ta peep his ass chillin cross-legged up in a kitchen chair, lookin at her wit eyes dat seemed both frightened n' accusatory. Walkin wit his ass up in tha park, da thug would suddenly seize both her handz n' say-almost demand: "Do you ludd me son, biatch? Do you ludd daddy?" And, confused, dat biiiiatch would nod or say, "Of course I do, honey." Then da thug would run ta tha duck pond, bustin dem squawkin n' scared ta tha other end, flappin they wings up in a panic before tha lil' small-ass ferocitizzle of his charge, leavin her ta stare afta his ass n' wonder.

There was even times when it seemed dat her determination ta at least say shit bout tha matta wit Jack dissolved, not outta her own weaknizz yo, but under tha determination of her son's will.

I don't believe such thangs.

But up in chill her dope ass did believe them, n' up in chill, wit her homeboy's seed still dryin on her fat-ass thighs, she felt dat tha three of dem had been permanently welded together-that if they three/onenizz was ta be fucked wit, it would not be fucked wit by any of dem but from outside.

Most of what tha fuck da hoe believed centered round her ludd fo' Jack. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch had never stopped gangbangin him, except maybe fo' dat dark period immediately followin Danny's "accident." And she loved her son. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Most of all she loved dem together, struttin or ridin or only chillin, Jack's big-ass head n' Danny's lil' small-ass one poised alertly over tha hustlaz of oldschool maid hands, pluggin a funky-ass forty of Coke, lookin all up in tha funnies. Put ya muthafuckin choppers up if ya feel dis! Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch loved havin dem wit her, n' dat freaky freaky biatch hoped ta dear Dogg dat dis hotel caretakin thang Al had gotten fo' Jack would be tha beginnin of phat times again.

And tha wind gonna rise up, baby,

and blow mah blues away...

Soft n' dope n' mellow, tha cold lil' woo wop came back n' lingered, followin her down tha fuck into a thugged-out deeper chill where thought ceased n' tha faces dat came up in trips went unremembered.

Chapta 7. In Anotha Bedroom
Danny awoke wit tha boomin still bangin up in his wild lil' fuckin ears, n' tha faded, savagely pettish voice bustin up like a biatch hoarsely: Come up here n' take yo' medicine biaaatch! I'll find you, nahmean biiiatch, biatch? I'll find youl

But now tha boomin was only his bangin racin ass, n' tha only voice up in tha night was tha faraway sound of a five-o siren.

Dude lay up in bed motionlessly, lookin up all up in tha wind-stirred shadowz of tha leaves on his bedroom ceiling. They twined sinuously together, makin shapes like tha vines n' creepers up in a jungle, like patterns woven tha fuck into tha nap of a thick carpet yo. Dude was clad up in Doctor Denton pajamas yo, but between tha pajama suit n' his skin dat schmoooove muthafucka had grown a mo' closely fittin singlet of perspiration.

"Tony?" da thug whispered. "Yo ass there?"

No answer.

Dude slipped outta bed n' padded silently across ta tha window n' looked up on Arapahoe Street, now still n' silent. Dat shiznit was two up in tha morning. There was not a god damn thang up there but empty sidewalks drifted wit fallen leaves, parked cars, n' tha long-necked streetlight on tha corner across from tha Cliff Brice gas station. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. With its hooded top n' motionless stance, tha streetlight looked like a monsta up in a space show.

Dude looked up tha street both ways, strainin his wild lil' fuckin eyes fo' Tony's slight, beckonin form yo, but there was no one there.

Da wind sighed all up in tha trees, n' tha fallen leaves rattled up tha deserted strutts n' round tha hubcapz of parked cars. Dat shiznit was a gangbangin' faint n' sorrowful sound, n' tha pimp thought dat he might be tha only one up in Boulder awake enough ta hear dat shit. Da only human being, at least. There was no way of knowin what tha fuck else might be up in tha night, slinkin hungrily all up in tha shadows, watchin n' scentin tha breeze.

I'll find you, nahmean biiiatch, biatch? I'll find you, nahmean biiiatch?

"Tony?" da thug whispered again yo, but without much hope.

Only tha wind was rappin back, gustin mo' straight fuckin dis time, scatterin leaves across tha slopin roof below his window. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Some of dem slipped tha fuck into tha raingutta n' came ta rest there like chillaxed dancers.

Danny... Danneee...

Dude started all up in tha sound of dat familiar voice n' craned up tha window, his fuckin lil' small-ass handz on tha sill. With tha sound of Tony's voice tha whole night seemed ta have come silently n' secretly kickin it, whisperin even when tha wind on tha fuckin' down-lowed again n' again n' again n' tha leaves was still n' tha shadows had stopped movin yo. Dude thought da perved-out muthafucka saw a thugged-out darker shadow standin by tha bus stop a funky-ass block down yo, but dat shiznit was hard ta tell if dat shiznit was a real thang or a eye-trick.

Don't go, Danny...

Then tha wind gusted again, makin his ass squint, n' tha shadow by tha bus stop was gone... if it had eva been there at all yo. Dude stood by his window for

(a minute, biatch? a hour?)

some time longer yo, but there was no mo' n' mo' n' mo' fo' realz. At last his schmoooove ass crept back tha fuck into his bed n' pulled tha blankets up n' peeped tha shadows thrown by tha alien streetlight turn tha fuck into a sinuous jungle filled wit flesh-eatin plants dat wanted only ta slip round him, squeeze tha game outta him, n' drag his ass down tha fuck into a funky-ass blacknizz where one sinista word flashed up in red:

REDRUM.

OH SHIT DAAWG

Chapta 8. A View of tha Overlook
Mommy was worried.

Bitch was afraid tha bug wouldn't make it up n' down all these mountains n' dat they would git stranded by tha side of tha road where some muthafucka might come rippin along n' hit dem wild-ass muthafuckas. Danny his dirty ass was mo' sanguine; if Daddy thought tha bug would make dis one last trip, then probably it would.

"We're just bout there," Jack holla'd.

Wendy brushed her afro back from her temples. "Thank Dogg."

Bitch was chillin up in tha right-hand bucket, a Victoria Holt paperback open but grill down up in her lap. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch was bustin her blue dress, tha one Danny thought was her prettiest. Well shiiiit, it had a sailor collar n' made her look straight-up young, like a hoe just gettin locked n loaded ta graduate from high school. Daddy kept puttin his hand high up on her leg n' she kept bustin up n' brushin it off, sayin Git away, fly.

Danny was impressed wit tha mountains. One dizzle Daddy had taken dem up in tha ones near Boulder, tha ones they called tha Flatirons yo, but these was much bigger, n' on tha tallest of dem you could peep a gangbangin' fine dustin of snow, which Daddy holla'd was often there year-round.

And they was straight-up up in tha mountains, no goofin around. Sheer rock faces rose all round them, so high you could barely peep they tops even by cranin yo' neck up tha window. When they left Boulder, tha temperature had been up in tha high seventies. Put ya muthafuckin choppers up if ya feel dis! Now, just afta noon, tha air up here felt crisp n' cold like November back up in Vermont n' Daddy had tha heata going... not dat it hit dat shiznit all dat well. They had passed nuff muthafuckin signs dat holla'd FALLING ROCK ZONE (Mommy read each one ta him), n' although Danny had waited anxiously ta peep some rock fall, none had. At least not yet.

Half a minute ago they had passed another sign dat Daddy holla'd was straight-up blingin. This sign holla'd ENTERING SIDEWINDER PASS, n' Daddy holla'd dat sign was as far as tha snowplows went up in tha wintertime fo' realz. Afta dat tha road gots too steep. In tha winta tha road was closed from tha lil hood of Sidewinder, which they had gone all up in just before they gots ta dat sign, all tha way ta Buckland, Utah.

Now they was passin another sign.

"What's dat one, Mom?"

"That one say SLOWER VEHICLES USE RIGHT LANE. That means us."

"Da bug will make it," Danny holla'd.

"Please, God," Mommy holla'd, n' crossed her fingers. Danny looked down at her open-toed sandals n' saw dat dat freaky freaky biatch had crossed her toes as well yo. Dude giggled. Biatch smiled back yo, but he knew dat dat biiiiatch was still worried.

Da road wound up n' up in a seriez of slow S curves, n' Jack dropped tha bug's stick shift from fourth gear ta third, then tha fuck into second. Da bug wheezed n' protested, n' Wendy's eye fixed on tha speedometa needle, which sank from forty ta thirty ta twenty, where it hovered reluctantly.

"Da gin n juice pump..." da hoe fuckin started timidly.

"Da gin n juice pump will go another three miles," Jack holla'd shortly.

Da rock wall fell tha fuck away on they right, disclosin a slash valley dat seemed ta go down forever, lined a thugged-out dark chronic wit Rocky Mountain pine n' spruce. Da pines fell tha fuck away ta gray cliffz of rock dat dropped fo' hundredz of feet before smoothang out. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch saw a waterfall spillin over one of them, tha early afternoon sun sparklin up in it like a golden fish snared up in a funky-ass blue net. Put yo muthafuckin choppers up if ya feel this muthafucka! They was dope mountains but they was hard. Biatch did not be thinkin they would forgive nuff mistakes fo' realz. An unaiiight forebodin rose up in her throat. Further westside up in tha Sierra Nevada tha Donner Jam had become snowbound n' had resorted ta cannibalizzle ta stay kickin dat shit, yo. Da mountains did not forgive nuff mistakes.

With a punch of tha clutch n' a jerk, Jack shifted down ta first gear n' they labored upward, tha bug's engine thumpin gamely.

"Yo ass know," her big-ass booty holla'd, "I don't be thinkin we've peeped five rides since we came all up in Sidewinder n' shiznit fo' realz. And one of dem was tha hotel limousine."

Jack nodded. "It goes right ta Stapleton Airport up in Denver n' shit. There's already some icy patches up beyond tha hotel, Watson says, n' they're forecastin mo' snow fo' tomorrow up higher n' shiznit fo' realz. Anybody goin all up in tha mountains now wants ta be on one of tha main roads, just up in case. That goddam Ullman betta still be up there, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. I guess da thug will be."

"You're shizzle tha larder is straight-up stocked?" she asked, still thankin of tha Donners.

"Dude holla'd so yo. Dude wanted Hallorann ta go over it wit you, biatch yo. Hallorann's tha cook."

"Oh," her big-ass booty holla'd faintly, lookin all up in tha speedometer n' shit. Well shiiiit, it had dropped from fifteen ta ten milez a hour.

"There's tha top," Jack holla'd, pointin three hundred yardz ahead. "There's a scenic turnout n' you can peep tha Overlook from there, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. I'm goin ta pull off tha road n' give tha bug a cold-ass lil chizzle ta rest." Dude craned over his shoulder at Danny, whoz ass was chillin on a pile of blankets, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. "What do you think, doc, biatch? We might peep some deer n' shit. Or caribou."

"Sure, Dad."

Da VW labored up n' up. Da speedometa dropped ta just above tha five-milean-hour hashmark n' was beginnin ta hitch when Jack pulled off tha road

("What's dat sign, Mommy?" "SCENIC TURNOUT," she read dutifully.)

and stepped on tha emergency brake n' let tha VW run up in neutral.

"Come on," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, n' gots out.

They strutted ta tha guardrail together.

"That's it," Jack holla'd, n' pointed at eleven o'clock.

For Wendy, dat shiznit was discoverin truth up in a cold-ass lil cliche: her breath was taken away. For a moment dat biiiiatch was unable ta breathe at all; tha view had knocked tha wind from her n' shit. They was standin near tha top of one peak fo' realz. Across from them-who knew how tha fuck far?-an even talla mountain reared tha fuck into tha sky, its jagged tip only a silhouette dat was now nimbused by tha sun, which was beginnin its decline. Da whole valley floor was spread up below them, tha slopes dat they had climbed up in tha laborin bug fallin away wit such dizzyin suddennizz dat she knew ta look down there fo' too long would brang on nausea n' eventual vomiting. Da imagination seemed ta sprang ta full game up in tha clear air, beyond tha rein of reason, n' ta look was ta helplessly peep one's self plungin down n' down n' down, sky n' slopes changin places up in slow cartwheels, tha scream driftin from yo' grill like a lazy balloon as yo' afro n' yo' dress billowed out...

Bitch jerked her gaze away from tha drop almost by force n' followed Jack's finger n' shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch could peep tha highway clingin ta tha side of dis cathedral spire, switchin back on itself but always tendin northwest, still climbin but at a mo' gentle angle. Further up, seemingly set directly tha fuck into tha slope itself, her big-ass booty saw tha grimly clingin pines give way ta a wide square of chronic lawn n' standin up in tha middle of it, overlookin all this, tha hotel. Da Overlook. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Seein it, she found breath n' voice again.

"Oh, Jack, it's gorgeous!"

"Yes, it is," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. "Unman say tha pimpin' muthafucka be thinkin it's tha single most dope location up in America. I don't care much fo' his ass yo, but I be thinkin he might be... Danny dawwwwg! Danny, is you all right?"

Bitch looked round fo' his ass n' her sudden fear fo' his ass blotted up every last muthafuckin thang else, stupendous or not. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch darted toward his muthafuckin ass yo. Dude was holdin onto tha guardrail n' lookin up all up in tha hotel, his wild lil' grill a pasty gray color yo. His eyes had tha blank look of one of mah thugs on tha verge of fainting.

Bitch knelt beside his ass n' put steadyin handz on his shoulders. "Danny, what's-"

Jack was beside her n' shit. "Yo ass aiiight, doc?" Dude gave Danny a funky-ass brisk lil shake n' his wild lil' fuckin eyes cleared.

"I'm aiiight, Daddy. I'm fine."

"What was it, Danny?" she asked. "Were you dizzy, honey?"

"Fuck dat shit, I was just... thinking. I'm sorry bout dat bullshit. I didn't mean ta scare you, biatch." Dude looked at his thugged-out lil' muthafathas, kneelin up in front of him, n' offered dem a lil' small-ass puzzled smile. "Maybe dat shiznit was tha sun. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da sun gots up in mah eyes."

"We'll git you up ta tha hotel n' hit you wit a thugged-out drank of water," Daddy holla'd.

"Okay."

And up in tha bug, which moved upward mo' surely on tha gentla grade, he kept lookin up between dem as tha road unwound, affordin occasionizzle glimpsez of tha Overlook Ho:. tel, its massive bank of westsideward-lookin windows reflectin back tha sun. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Dat shiznit was tha place dat schmoooove muthafucka had peeped up in tha midst of tha blizzard, tha dark n' boomin place where some hideously familiar figure sought his ass down long corridors carpeted wit jungle. Da place Tony had warned his ass against. Dat shiznit was here, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. Dat shiznit was here, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. Whatever Redrum was, dat shiznit was here.

Chapta 9. Checkin' It Out
Ullman was waitin fo' dem just inside tha wide, old-fashioned front doors yo. Dude shook handz wit Jack n' nodded coolly at Wendy, like noticin tha way headz turned when dat thugged-out biiiatch came all up in tha fuck into tha lobby, her golden afro spillin across tha shouldaz of tha simple navy dress. Da hem of tha dress stopped a modest two inches above tha knee yo, but you didn't gotta peep mo' ta know they was phat legs.

Ullman seemed truly warm toward Danny only yo, but Wendy had experienced dat before. Danny seemed ta be a cold-ass lil lil pimp fo' playas whoz ass ordinarily held W. C. Fields' sentiments bout lil' thugs yo. Dude bent a lil from tha waist n' offered Danny his hand. Danny shook it formally, without a smile.

"My fuckin lil hustla Danny," Jack holla'd. "And mah hoe Winnifred."

"I'm aiiight ta hook up you both," Ullman holla'd. "How tha fuck oldschool is you, Danny?"

"Five, sir."

"Sir, yet." Ullman smiled n' glanced at Jack. "He's well mannered."

"Of course be is," Jack holla'd.

"And Mrs. Torrance." Dude offered tha same lil bow, n' fo' a funky-ass bemused instant Wendy thought da thug would lick her hand. Biatch half-offered it n' da ruffneck did take it yo, but only fo' a moment, clasped up in both of his yo. His handz was lil' small-ass n' dry n' smooth, n' she guessed dat he powdered dem wild-ass muthafuckas.

Da lobby was a funky-ass bustle of activitizzle fo' realz. Almost every last muthafuckin one of tha old-fashioned high-backed chairs was taken. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Bellboys shuttled up in n' up wit suitcases n' there was a line all up in tha desk, which was dominated by a big-ass brass chedda regista n' shit. Da BankAmericard n' Masta Charge decals on it seemed jarringly anachronistic.

To they right, down toward a pair of tall double doors dat was pulled closed n' roped off, there was a old-fashioned fireplace now blazin wit birch logs. Three nuns sat on a sofa dat was drawn up almost ta tha hearth itself. They was poppin' off n' smilin wit they bags stacked up ta either side, waitin fo' tha check-out line ta thin a lil fo' realz. As Wendy peeped dem they burst tha fuck into a cold-ass lil chord of tinkling, girlish laughter n' shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch felt a smile bust a nut on her own lips; not one of dem could be under sixty.

In tha background was tha constant hum of conversation, tha muted ding! of tha silver-plated bell beside tha chedda regista as one of tha two clerks on duty struck it, tha slightly impatient call of "Front, please!" It brought back strong, warm memoriez of her honeymoon up in New York wit Jack, all up in tha Beekman Tower n' shit. For tha last time she let her muthafuckin ass believe dat dis might be exactly what tha fuck tha three of dem needed: a season together away from tha ghetto, a sort of crew honeymoon. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch smiled affectionately down at Danny, whoz ass was gogglin round frankly at every last muthafuckin thang fo' realz. Another limo, as gray as a funky-ass banker's vest, had pulled up front

"Da last dizzle of tha season," Ullman was saying. "Closin day. It make me wanna hollar playa! Always hectic. I had expected you mo' round three, Mista Muthafuckin Torrance."

"I wanted ta give tha Volks time fo' a straight-up trippin breakdown if it decided ta have one," Jack holla'd. "It didn't."

"How tha fuck fortunate," Ullman holla'd. "I'd like ta take tha three of y'all on a trip of tha place a lil later, n' of course Dick Hallorann wants ta show Mrs. Torrizzle tha Overlook's kitchen. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. But I'm afraid-"

One of tha clerks came over n' almost tugged his wild lil' forelock.

"Excuse me, Mista Muthafuckin Unman-"

"Well, biatch? What tha fuck iz it?"

"It's Mrs. Brant," tha clerk holla'd uncomfortably. "Bitch refuses ta pay her bill wit anythang but her Gangsta Express card. I holla'd at her we stopped takin Gangsta Express all up in tha end of tha season last year yo, but dat biiiiatch won't..." His eyes shifted ta tha Torrizzle crew, then back ta Ullman. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude shrugged.

"I'll take care of dat shit."

"Nuff props, Mista Muthafuckin Ullman." Da clerk crossed back ta tha desk, where a thugged-out dreadnought of a biatch bundled tha fuck into a long-ass fur coat n' what tha fuck looked like a funky-ass black feather boa was remonstratin loudly.

"I done been comin ta tha Overlook Hotel since 1955," dat biiiiatch was spittin some lyrics ta tha smiling, shruggin clerk. "I continued ta come even afta mah second homeboy took a dirt nap of a stroke on dat tiresome roque court-I holla'd at his ass tha sun was too bangin' dat day-and I have never... I repeat: never... paid wit anythang but mah Gangsta Express credit card. Call tha five-o if you like biaaatch! Have dem drag me away dawwwwg! I'ma still refuse ta pay wit anythang but mah Gangsta Express credit card. I repeat:..."

"Excuse me," Mista Muthafuckin Ullman holla'd.

They peeped his ass cross tha lobby, bust a nut on Mrs. Brant's elbow deferentially, n' spread his handz n' nod when dat dunkadelic hoe turned her tirade on his muthafuckin ass yo. Dude listened sympathetically, nodded again, n' holla'd suttin' up in return, so check it before ya wreck it. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Mrs. Brant smiled triumphantly, turned ta tha unaiiight desk clerk, n' holla'd loudly: "Thank Dogg there is one hommie of dis hotel whoz ass hasn't become a utta Philistinel"

Bitch allowed Ullman, whoz ass barely came ta tha bulky shoulder of her fur coat, ta take her arm n' lead her away, presumably ta his crazy-ass muthafuckin inner crib.

"Whooo!" Wendy holla'd, smiling. "There's a thugged-out dude whoz ass earns his crazy-ass scrilla."

"But da ruffneck didn't like dat lady," Danny holla'd immediately. "Dude was just pretendin ta like her muthafuckin ass."

Jack grinned down at his muthafuckin ass. "I'm shizzle that's true, doc. But flattery is tha shiznit dat greases tha wheelz of tha ghetto. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass."

"What's flattery?"

"Flattery," Wendy holla'd at him, "is when yo' daddy say he likes mah freshly smoked up yellow slacks even if da ruffneck don't or when da perved-out muthafucka say I don't need ta take off five pounds."

"Oh. Is it lyin fo' fun?"

"Somethang straight-up like dat n' like dis n' like dat y'all."

Dude had been lookin at her closely n' now holla'd: "You're pretty, Mommy." Dude frowned up in mad drama when they exchanged a glizzle n' then burst tha fuck into laughter.

"Ullman didn't waste much flattery on me," Jack holla'd. "Come on over by tha window, you muthafuckas. I feel conspicuous standin up here up in tha middle wit mah denim jacket on. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I real ta Dogg didn't be thinkin there'd be anybody much here on closin day. It make me wanna hollar playa! Guess I was wrong."

"Yo ass look straight-up thugged-out," her big-ass booty holla'd, n' then they laughed again, Wendy puttin a hand over her grill. Danny still didn't understand yo, but dat shiznit was all gravy. They was gangbangin each other n' shit. Danny thought dis place reminded her of somewhere else

(the beak-man place)

where dat freaky freaky biatch had been horny yo. Dude wished he was horny bout it as well as her dope ass did yo, but he kept spittin some lyrics ta his dirty ass over n' over dat tha thangs Tony flossed his ass didn't always come true yo. Dude would be careful naaahhmean, biatch? Dude would peep fo' suttin' called Redrum. But da thug would not say anythang unless he straight-up had to. Because they was happy, they had been laughing, n' there was no shitty thoughts.

"Look at dis view," Jack holla'd.

"Oh, it's gorgeousl Danny, Iookl"

But Danny didn't be thinkin dat shiznit was particularly gorgeous yo. Dude didn't like heights; they made his ass dizzy. Beyond tha wide front porch, which ran tha length of tha hotel, a funky-ass dopely manicured lawn (there was a puttin chronic on tha right) sloped away ta a long, rectangular swimmin pool fo' realz. A CLOSED sign stood on a lil tripod at one end of tha pool; closed was one sign his schmoooove ass could read by his dirty ass, along wit Stop, Exit, Pizza, n' all dem others.

Beyond tha pool a graveled path wound off all up in baby pines n' spruces n' aspens yo. Here was a lil' small-ass sign da ruffneck didn't know: ROQUE. There was a arrow below dat shit.

"The fuck is R-O-Q-U-E, Daddy?"

"A game," Daddy holla'd. "It's a lil bit like croquet, only you play it on a gravel court dat has sides like a funky-ass big-ass billiard table instead of grass. It's a straight-up oldschool game, Danny. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Sometimes they have tournaments here."

"Do you play it wit a cold-ass lil croquet mallet?"

"Like that," Jack agreed. "Only tha handle's a lil shorta n' tha head has two sides. One side is hard rubber n' tha other side is wood."

(Come out, you lil shit!)

"It's pronounced roke," Daddy was saying. "I'll teach you how tha fuck ta play, if you want."

"Maybe," Danny holla'd up in a odd colorless lil voice dat made his thugged-out lil' muthafathas exchange a puzzled look over his head. "I might not like it; though."

"Well if you don't like it, doc, you aint gots ta play fo' realz. All right?"

"Sure."

"Do you like tha muthafuckas?" Wendy asked. "That's called a topiary." Beyond tha path leadin ta roque there was hedges clipped tha fuck into tha shapez of various muthafuckas. Danny, whose eyes was sharp, made up a rabbit, a thugged-out dog, a horse, a cold-ass lil cow, n' a trio of bigger ones dat looked like frolickin lions.

"Those muthafuckas was what tha fuck made Uncle Al be thinkin of me fo' tha thang," Jack holla'd at his muthafuckin ass. "Dude knew dat when I was up in college I used ta work fo' a landscapin company. That's a funky-ass bidnizz dat fixes people's lawns n' bushes n' hedges. I used ta trim a lady's topiary."

Wendy put a hand over her grill n' snickered. Lookin at her, Jack holla'd, "Yes, I used ta trim her topiary at least once a week"

"Git away, fly," Wendy holla'd, n' snickered again.

"Did dat freaky freaky biatch have sick hedges, Dad?" Danny asked, n' at dis they both stifled pimped out burstz of laughter n' shit. Wendy laughed so hard dat tears streamed down her cheeks n' dat freaky freaky biatch had ta git a Kleenex outta her fannypack.

"They weren't muthafuckas, Danny," Jack holla'd when dat schmoooove muthafucka had control of his dirty ass. "They was playin cards. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Spades n' hearts n' clubs n' diamonds. But tha hedges grow, you see-"

(They creep, Watson had holla'd... no, not tha hedges, tha boila n' shit. Yo ass gotta peep all dat shiznit tha time or you n' yo' f ambly will end up on tha f uckin moon.)

They looked at him, puzzled. Da smile had faded off his wild lil' face.

"Dad?" Danny asked.

Dude blinked at them, as if comin back from far away. "They grow, Danny, n' lose they shape. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So I'll gotta give dem a haircut once or twice a week until it gets so cold they stop growin fo' tha year."

"And a playground, too," Wendy holla'd. "My fuckin dirty boy."

Da playground was beyond tha topiary. Two slides, a funky-ass big-ass swin set wit half a thugged-out dozen swings set at varyin heights, a jungle gym, a tunnel made of cement rings, a sandbox, n' a playhouse dat was a exact replica of tha Overlook itself.

"Do you like it, Danny?" Wendy asked.

"I shizzle do," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, hopin da perved-out muthafucka sounded mo' enthused than he felt. "It's neat."

Beyond tha playground there was a inconspicuous chain link securitizzle fence, beyond dat tha wide, macadamized drive dat hustled up ta tha hotel, n' beyond dat tha valley itself, droppin away tha fuck into tha bright blue haze of afternoon. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Danny didn't know tha word isolation yo, but if one of mah thugs had explained it ta his ass da thug would have seized on dat shit. Far below, lyin up in tha sun like a long-ass black snake dat had decided ta snooze fo' a while, was tha road dat hustled back all up in Sidewinder Pass n' eventually ta Boulder n' shit. Da road dat would be closed all winta long yo. Dude felt a lil suffocated all up in tha thought, n' almost jumped when Daddy dropped his hand on his shoulder.

"I'll git you dat drank as soon as I can, doc. They're a lil busy n' aint a thugged-out damn thang dat yo' ass can do."

"Sure, Dad."

Mrs. Brant came outta tha inner crib lookin vindicated. This type'a shiznit happens all tha time fo' realz. A few moments lata two bellboys, strugglin wit eight suitcases between them, followed her as dopest they could as her big-ass booty strode triumphantly up tha door. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Danny peeped all up in tha window as a playa up in a gray uniform n' a funky-ass basebizzle cap like a cold-ass lil captain up in tha Army brought her long silver hoopty round ta tha door n' gots up yo. Dude tipped his cap ta her n' ran round ta open tha trunk.

And up in one of dem flashes dat sometimes came, he gots a cold-ass lil complete thought from her, one dat floated above tha confused, low-pitched babble of emotions n' flavas dat he probably gots up in crowded places.

(I'd like ta git tha fuck into his thugged-out lil' pants)

Danny's brow wrinkled as he peeped tha bellboys put her cases tha fuck into tha trunk. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch was lookin rather sharply all up in tha playa up in tha gray uniform, whoz ass was supervisin tha loading. Why would dat biiiiatch wanna git dat dudez pants, biatch? Was dat thugged-out biiiatch cold, even wit dat long fur coat on, biatch? And if dat biiiiatch was dat cold, why hadn't she just put on some baggy-ass pantz of her own, biatch? His mommy wore baggy-ass pants just bout all winter.

Da playa up in tha gray uniform closed tha trunk n' strutted back ta help her tha fuck into tha car. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Danny peeped closely ta peep if dat biiiiatch would say anythang bout his thugged-out lil' pants yo, but she only smiled n' gave his ass a thugged-out dollar bill-a tip fo' realz. A moment lata dat biiiiatch was guidin tha big-ass silver hoopty down tha driveway.

Dude thought bout askin his crazy-ass mutha why Mrs. Brant might want tha car-man's pants, n' decided against dat shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Sometimes thangs could git you up in a whole lot of shit. Well shiiiit, it had happened ta his ass before.

So instead da perved-out muthafucka squeezed up in between dem on tha lil' small-ass sofa they was pluggin n' peeped all tha playas hit up all up in tha desk yo. Dude was glad his crazy-ass mommy n' daddy was aiiight n' gangbangin each other yo, but his schmoooove ass couldn't help bein a lil worried. Dude couldn't help dat shit.

Chapta 10. Hallorann
Da cook didn't conform ta Wendy's image of tha typical resort hotel kitchen personage at all. To begin with, such a personage was called a cold-ass lil chef, not a god damn thang so mundane as a cold-ass lil cook-cookin was what tha fuck her dope ass did up in her crib kitchen when dat dunkadelic hoe threw all tha leftovers tha fuck into a greased Pyrex casserole dish n' added noodles. Further, tha culinary wizzle of such a place as tha Overlook, which advertised up in tha resort section of tha New York Sundizzle Times, should be small, rotund, n' pasty-faced (rather like tha Pizzlesbury Dough-Boy); da perved-out muthafucka should gotz a thin pencilline mustache like a gangbangin' fortizzles musical comedy star, dark eyes, a French accent, n' a thugged-out detestable personality.

Hallorann had tha dark eyes n' dat was all yo. Dude was a tall black playa wit a modest afro dat was beginnin ta powder white yo. Dude had a soft southern accent n' he laughed a lot, disclosin teeth too white n' too even ta be anythang but 1950-vintage Sears n' Roebuck dentures yo. Her own daddy had had a pair, which his schmoooove ass called Roebuckers, n' from time ta time da thug would push dem up at her comically all up in tha supper table... always, Wendy remembered now, when her mutha was up in tha kitchen gettin suttin' else or on tha telephone.

Danny had stared up at dis black giant up in blue serge, n' then had smiled when Hallorann picked his ass up easily, set his ass up in tha crook of his wild lil' fuckin elbow, n' holla'd: "Yo ass ain't gonna stay up here all winter."

"Yes yes y'all, I am," Danny holla'd wit a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shy grin.

"Fuck dat shit, you're gonna come down ta St. Pete's wit me n' learn ta cook n' go up on tha beach every last muthafuckin damn evenin watchin fo' crabs. Right?"

Danny giggled delightedly n' shook his head no yo. Hallorann set his ass down.

"If you're gonna chizzle yo' mind," Hallorann holla'd, bendin over his ass gravely, "you betta do it quick. Thirty minutes from now n' I'm up in mah car. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Two n' a half minutes afta that, I'm chillin at Gate 32, Concourse B, Stapleton Internationistic Airport, up in tha mile-high hood of Denver, Colorado. Three minutes afta that, I'm rentin a cold-ass lil hoopty all up in tha Miama Airport n' on mah way ta sunny St. Pete's, waitin ta git iota mah swimtrunks n' just laaafin up mah sleeve at anybody stuck n' caught up in tha snow. Yo ass betta dig it, mah boy?"

"Yes, sir," Danny holla'd, smiling.

Hallorann turned ta Jack n' Wendy. "Looks like a gangbangin' fine pimp there."

"We be thinkin he'll do," Jack holla'd, n' offered his hand. Hallorann took dat shit. "I'm Jack Torrance. My fuckin hoe Winnifred. Danny you've met."

"And a pleasure it was. Ma'am, is you a Winnie or a Freddie?"

"I'm a Wendy," her big-ass booty holla'd, smiling.

"Okay. That's betta than tha other two, I think. Right dis way. Mista Muthafuckin Unman wants you ta have tha tour, tha trip you'll get." Dude shook his bead n' holla'd under his breath: "And won't I be glad ta peep tha last of his muthafuckin ass."

Hallorann commenced ta trip dem round da most thugged-out immense kitchen Wendy had eva peeped up in her game. Dat shiznit was sparklin clean. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Every surface was coaxed ta a high gloss. Dat shiznit was mo' than just big; dat shiznit was intimidating. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch strutted at Hallorann's side while Jack, wholly outta his wild lil' fuckin element, hung back a lil wit Danny fo' realz. A long wallboard hung wit cuttin instruments which went all tha way from parin knives ta twohanded cleavers hung beside a gangbangin' four-basin sink. There was a funky-ass breadboard as big-ass as they Boulder crib's kitchen table fo' realz. An dunkadelic array of stainless-steel pots n' pans hung from floor ta ceiling, coverin one whole wall.

"I be thinkin I'll gotta leave a trail of breadcrumbs every last muthafuckin time I come in," her big-ass booty holla'd.

"Don't let it git you down," Hallorann holla'd. "It's big-ass yo, but it's still only a kitchen. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Most of dis shiznit you'll never even gotta touch. Keep it clean, that's all I ask yo. Here's tha stove I'd be using, if I was you, biatch. There is three of dem up in all yo, but dis is tha smallest.

Smallest, dat dunkadelic hoe thought dismally, lookin at it There was twelve burners, two regular ovens n' a Dutch oven, a heated well on top up in which you could simmer sauces or bake beans, a funky-ass broiler, n' a warmer-plus a mazillion dials n' temperature gauges.

"All gas," Hallorann holla'd. "You've cooked wit gas before, Wendy?"

"Yes yes y'all...:'

"I gots a straight-up boner fo' gas," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, n' turned on one of tha burners. Blue flame popped tha fuck into game n' he adjusted it down ta a gangbangin' faint glow wit a thugged-out delicate touch. "I gotta be able ta peep tha flame you're cookin with. Yo ass peep where all tha surface burner switches are?"

"Yes yes y'all."

"And tha oven dials is all marked. Myself, I favor tha middle one cuz it seems ta heat da most thugged-out even yo, but you use whichever one you like-or all three, fo' dat matter."

"A TV dinner up in each one," Wendy holla'd, n' laughed weakly.

Hallorann roared. "Go right ahead, if you like. I left a list of every last muthafuckin thang edible over by tha sink. Yo ass peep it?"

"Here it is, Mommyl" Danny brought over two sheetz of paper, freestyled closely on both sides.

"Dope boy," Hallorann holla'd, takin it from his ass n' rufflin his hair. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. "Yo ass shizzle you don't wanna come ta Florida wit me, mah boy, biatch? Peep ta cook tha dopeest shrimp creole dis side of paradise?"

Danny put his handz over his crazy-ass grill n' giggled n' retreated ta his wild lil' father's side.

"Yo ass three folks could smoke up here fo' a year, I guess," Hallorann holla'd. "We gots a cold-ass lil cold-pantry, a strutt-in freezer, all sortz of vegetable bins, n' two refrigerators. Come on n' let me show you, biatch."

For tha next ten minutes Hallorann opened bins n' doors, disclosin chicken up in such amounts as Wendy had never peeped before. Da chicken supplies amazed her but did not reassure her as much as she might have thought: tha Donner Jam kept recurrin ta her, not wit thoughtz of cannibalizzle (with all dis chicken it would indeed be a long-ass time before they was reduced ta such skanky rations as each other) yo, but wit tha reinforced scam dat dis was indeed a straight-up bidnizz: when snow fell, gettin outta here would not be a matta of a hour's drive ta Sidewinder but a major operation. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. They would sit up here up in dis deserted grand hotel, smokin tha chicken dat had been left dem like creatures up in a gangbangin' fairy tale n' listenin ta tha bitta wind round they snowbound eaves. In Vermont, when Danny had fucked up his thugged-out arm

(when Jack broke Danny's arm)

she had called tha emergency Medix squad, dialin tha number from tha lil card attached ta tha phone. They had been all up in tha doggy den only ten minutes later n' shit. There was other numbers freestyled on dat lil card. Yo ass could gotz a five-o hoopty up in five minutes n' a gangbangin' fire truck up in even less time than that, cuz tha fire station was only three blocks away n' one block over n' shit. There was a playa ta booty-call if tha lights went out, a playa ta booty-call if tha shower stopped up, a playa ta booty-call if tha TV went on tha fritz. But what tha fuck would happen up here if Danny had one of his wild lil' faintin spells n' swallowed his cold-ass tongue?

(oh Dogg what tha fuck a thought!)

What if tha place caught on fire, biatch? If Jack fell tha fuck down tha elevator shaft n' fractured his skull, biatch? What if-?

(what if our crazy asses gotz a straight-up dope time now stop ft, Winni fred!)

Hallorann flossed dem tha fuck into tha strutt-in freezer first, where they breath puffed up like comic strip balloons. In tha freezer dat shiznit was as if winta had already come.

Hamburger up in big-ass plastic bags, ten poundz up in each bag, a thugged-out dozen bags. Forty whole chickens hangin from a row of hooks up in tha wood-planked walls. Canned hams stacked up like poker chips, a thugged-out dozen of dem wild-ass muthafuckas. Below tha chickens, ten roastz of beef, ten roastz of pork, n' a big-ass leg of lamb.

"Yo ass like lamb, doe?" Hallorann asked, grinning.

"I gots a straight-up boner fo' it," Danny holla'd immediately yo. Dude had never had dat shit.

"I knew you done did. There's nothin like two phat slicez of lamb on a cold-ass lil cold night, wit some mint jelly on tha side. Yo ass gots tha mint jelly here, like a muthafucka. Lamb eases tha belly. It's a noncontentious sort of meat."

From behind dem Jack holla'd curiously: "How tha fuck did you know we called his ass doe?"

Hallorann turned around. "Pardon?"

"Danny: We call his ass doe sometimes. Like up in tha Bugs Bunny cartoons."

"Looks sort of like a thugged-out doe, don't be?" Dude wrinkled his nozzle at Danny, smacked his fuckin lips, n' holla'd, "Ehhhh, what's up, doe?"

Danny giggled n' then Hallorann holla'd something

(Sure you don't wanna git all up in Florida, doe?)

to him, straight-up clearly yo. Dude heard every last muthafuckin word. Dude looked at Hallorann, startled n' a lil trippin like a muthafucka yo. Hallorann winked solemnly n' turned back ta tha chicken n' you know I be eatin up dat shizzle all muthafuckin day, biatch.

Wendy looked from tha cook's broad, serge-clad back ta her son. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch had tha oddest feelin dat suttin' had passed between them, suttin' dat thugged-out biiiatch could not like follow.

"Yo ass gots twelve packagez of sausage, twelve packagez of bacon," Hallorann holla'd. "So much fo' tha pig. In dis drawer, twenty poundz of butter."

"Real butter?" Jack asked.

"Da A-number-one."

"I don't be thinkin I've had real butta since I was a kid back up in Berlin, New Hampshire."

"Well, you'll smoke it up here until oleo seems a treat," Hallorann holla'd, n' laughed. "Over up in dis bin you gots yo' bread-thirty loavez of white, twenty of dark. We try ta keep racial balizzle all up in tha Overlook, don't you know. Now I know fifty loaves won't take you all up in yo, but there's nuff makings n' fresh is betta than frozen any dizzle of tha week.

"Down here you gots yo' fish. Dome chicken, right, doe?"

"Is it, Mom?"

"If Mista Muthafuckin yo. Hallorann say so, honey." Biatch smiled.

Danny wrinkled his nose. "I don't like fish."

"You're dead wrong," Hallorann holla'd. "Yo ass just never had any fish dat was horny bout you, biatch. This fish here will like you fine. Five poundz of rainbow trout, ten poundz of turbot, fifteen canz of tuna fish-"

"Oh yeah, I wanna bust a nut on tuna."

"and five poundz of tha dopeest-tastin sole dat eva swam up in tha sea. My fuckin boy, when next sprang rolls around, you're gonna give props ta old..." Dude snapped his wild lil' fingers as if dat schmoooove muthafucka had forgotten something. "What's mah name, now, biatch? I guess it just slipped mah mind."

"Mista Muthafuckin yo. Hallorann," Danny holla'd, grinning. "Dick, ta yo' playas."

"That's right son! And you bein a gangbangin' playa, you make it Dick."

As dat schmoooove muthafucka hustled dem tha fuck into tha far corner, Jack n' Wendy exchanged a puzzled glance, both of dem tryin ta remember if Hallorann had holla'd at dem his wild lil' first name.

"And dis here I put up in special," Hallorann holla'd. "Hope you folks trip off dat shit."

"Oh straight-up, you shouldn't have," Wendy holla'd, touched. Dat shiznit was a twenty-pound turkey wrapped up in a wide scarlet ribbon wit a funky-ass bow on top.

"Yo ass gots ta have yo' turkey on Thanksgiving, Wendy," Hallorann holla'd gravely. "I believe there's a cold-ass lil capon back here somewhere fo' Chrizzle. Doubtless you'll stumble on dat shit. Let's come on outta here now before we all catch tha peenumonia. Right, doc?"

"Right!"

There was mo' wondaz up in tha cold-pantry fo' realz. A hundred boxez of dried gin n juice (Hallorann advised her gravely ta loot fresh gin n juice fo' tha pimp up in Sidewinder as long as dat shiznit was feasible), five twelve-pound bagz of sugar, a gallon jug of blackstrap molasses, cereals, glass jugz of rice, macaroni, spaghetti; ranked canz of fruit n' fruit salad; a funky-ass bushel of fresh applez dat scented tha whole room wit autumn; dried raisins, prunes, n' apricots ("Yo ass gots ta be regular if you wanna be happy," Hallorann holla'd, n' pealed laughta all up in tha coldpantry ceiling, where one old-fashioned light globe hung down on a iron chain); a thugged-out deep bin filled wit potatoes; n' smalla cachez of tomatoes, onions, turnips, squashes, n' cabbages.

"My fuckin word," Wendy holla'd as they came out. But seein all dat fresh chicken afta her thirty-dollar-a-week grocery budget so stunned her dat dat biiiiatch was unable ta say just what tha fuck her word was.

"I'm runnin a lil' bit late," Hallorann holla'd, checkin his thugged-out lil' peep it, "so I'll just let you go all up in tha cabinets n' tha fridges as you git settled in. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. There's cheeses, canned milk, dopeened condensed milk, yeast, bakin soda, a whole bagful of dem Table Talk pies, all dem bunchez of bananas dat ain't even near ta ripe yet-"

"Stop," her big-ass booty holla'd, holdin up a hand n' laughing. "I'll never remember it all. It's supa n' shiznit fo' realz. And I promise ta leave tha place clean."

"That's all I ask." Dude turned ta Jack. "Did Mista Muthafuckin Ullman hit you wit tha rundown on tha rats up in his belfry?"

Jack grinned. "Dude holla'd there was possibly some up in tha attic, n' Mista Muthafuckin Watson holla'd there might be some mo' down up in tha basement. There must be two tonz of paper down there yo, but I didn't peep any shredded, as if they'd been rockin it ta make nests."

"That Watson," Hallorann holla'd, bobbin his head up in mock sorrow. "Ain't tha pimpin' muthafucka tha foulest-talkin playa you eva ran on?"

"He's like a cold-ass lil character," Jack agreed. His own daddy had been tha foulesttalkin playa Jack had eva run on.

"It's sort of a bitch ass muthafucka," Hallorann holla'd, leadin dem back toward tha wide swingin doors dat gave on tha Overlook dinin room. "There was scrilla up in dat crew, long ago. Dat shiznit was Watson's granddad or pimped out-granddad-I can't remember which-that built dis place."

"So I was holla'd at," Jack holla'd.

"What happened?" Wendy asked.

"Well, they couldn't make it go," Hallorann holla'd. "Watson will rap tha whole story-twice a thugged-out day, if you let his muthafuckin ass. Da oldschool playa gots a funky-ass bee up in his bonnet bout tha place yo. Dude let it drag his ass down, I guess yo. Dude had two thugs n' one of dem was capped up in a ridin accident on tha groundz while tha hotel was still abuilding. That would done been 1908 or '09. Da oldschool dudez hoe took a dirt nap of tha flu, n' then dat shiznit was just tha oldschool playa n' his youngest son. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. They ended up gettin took back on as caretakers up in tha same hotel tha oldschool playa had built."

"It be sort of a bitch ass muthafucka," Wendy holla'd.

"What happened ta him, biatch? Da oldschool man?" Jack asked.

"Dude plugged his wild lil' finger tha fuck into a light socket by fuck up n' dat was tha end of him," Hallorann holla'd. "Sometime up in tha early thirtizzles before tha Depression closed dis place down fo' ten years.

"Anyway, Jack, I'd appreciate it if you n' yo' hoe would keep a eye up fo' rats up in tha kitchen, as well. If you should peep dem wild-ass muthafuckas... traps, not poison."

Jack blinked. "Of course. Who'd wanna put rat poison up in tha kitchen?"

Hallorann laughed derisively. "Mista Muthafuckin Ullman, that's who. That was his bright scam last fall. I put it ta him, I holla'd: `What if we all git up here next May, Mista Muthafuckin Ullman, n' I serve tha traditionizzle openin night dinner'-which just happens ta be salmon up in a straight-up sick sauce-'and dem hoes gits sick n' tha doctor comes n' say ta you, "Ullman, what tha fuck have you been bustin up here, biatch? You've gots eighty of tha richest folks up in Tha Ghetto sufferin from rat poisoning!" "'

Jack threw his head back n' bellowed laughter n' shit. "What did Ullman say?"

Hallorann tucked his cold-ass tongue tha fuck into his cheek as if feelin fo' a lil' bit of chicken up in there, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. "Dude holla'd: `Git some traps, Hallorann. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. ' "

This time they all laughed, even Danny, although da thug was not straight-up shizzle what tha fuck tha joke was, except it had suttin' ta do wit Mista Muthafuckin Ullman, whoz ass didn't know every last muthafuckin thang afta all.

Da four of dem passed all up in tha dinin room, empty n' silent now, wit its fabulous westside exposure on tha snow-dusted peaks. Each of tha white linen tablecloths had been covered wit a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shizzle of tough clear plastic. Da rug, now rolled up fo' tha season, stood up in one corner like a sentinel on guard duty.

Across tha wide room was a thugged-out double set of batwin doors, n' over dem a oldfashioned sign lettered up in gilt script: Da Colorado Lounge.

Peepin his wild lil' freakadelic gaze, Hallorann holla'd, "If you're a thugged-out drinkin dude, I hope you brought yo' own supplies. Put ya muthafuckin choppers up if ya feel dis! That place is picked clean. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Employee's jam last night, you know. Every maid n' bellhop up in tha place is goin round wit a headache todizzle, me included."

"I don't drink," Jack holla'd shortly. They went back ta tha lobby.

It had cleared pimped outly durin tha half minute they'd dropped up in tha kitchen. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da long main room was beginnin ta take on tha on tha fuckin' down-low, deserted look dat Jack supposed they would become familiar wit soon enough cause I gots dem finger-lickin' chickens wit tha siz-auce. Da high-backed chairs was empty. Da nuns whoz ass had been chillin by tha fire was gone, n' tha fire itself was down ta a funky-ass bed of comfortably glowin coals. Wendy glanced up tha fuck into tha parkin lot n' saw dat all but a thugged-out dozen rides had disappeared.

Bitch found her muthafuckin ass wishin they could git back up in tha VW n' go back ta Boulder... or anywhere else.

Jack was lookin round fo' Ullman yo, but da thug wasn't up in tha lobby.

A lil' maid wit her ash-blond afro pinned up on her neck came over n' shit. "Yo crazy-ass luggage is up on tha porch, Dick."

"Nuff props, Sally." Dude gave her a peck on tha forehead. "Yo ass have yo ass a phat winter n' shit. Gettin married, I hear."

Dude turned ta tha Torrances as her big-ass booty strolled away, backside twitchin pertly. "I've gots ta hurry along if I'm goin ta make dat plane. I wanna wish you all da bomb. Know you'll have dat shit."

"Thanks," Jack holla'd. "You've been straight-up kind."

"I'll take phat care of yo' kitchen," Wendy promised again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. "Trip off Florida."

"I always do," Hallorann holla'd. Dude put his handz on his knees n' bent down ta Danny. "Last chance, muthafucka. Want ta come ta Florida?"

"I guess not," Danny holla'd, smiling.

"Okay. Like ta break me off a hand up ta mah hoopty wit mah bags?"

"If mah mommy say I can."

"Yo ass can," Wendy holla'd, "but you'll gotta have dat jacket buttoned." Biatch leaned forward ta do it but Hallorann was ahead of her, his big-ass brown fingers movin wit smooth dexterity.

"I'll bust his ass right back in," Hallorann holla'd.

"Fine," Wendy holla'd, n' followed dem ta tha door. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Jack was still lookin round fo' Ullman. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da last of tha Overlooks guests was hittin' up all up in tha desk.

Chapta 11. Da Shinin
There was four bags up in a pile just outside tha door. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Three of dem was giant, battered oldschool suitcases covered wit black imitation alligator hide. Da last was a oversized zipper bag wit a gangbangin' faded tartan skin.

"Guess you can handle dat one, can't yo slick ass?" Hallorann axed his muthafuckin ass yo. Dude picked up two of tha big-ass cases up in one hand n' hoisted tha other under his thugged-out arm.

"Sure," Danny holla'd. Dude gots a grip on it wit both handz n' followed tha cook down tha porch steps, tryin manfully not ta grunt n' give away how tha fuck heavy it was.

A sharp n' cuttin fall wind had come up since they had arrived; it whistled across tha parkin lot, makin Danny wince his wild lil' fuckin eyes down ta slits as his schmoooove ass carried tha zipper bag up in front of him, bumpin on his knees fo' realz. A few errant aspen leaves rattled n' turned across tha now mostly deserted asphalt, makin Danny be thinkin momentarily of dat night last week when dat schmoooove muthafucka had wakened outta his nightmare n' had heard-or thought dat schmoooove muthafucka heard, at least-Tony spittin some lyrics ta his ass not ta bounce tha fuck out.

Hallorann set his bags down by tha trunk of a funky-ass beige Plymouth Fury. "This ain't much car," his schmoooove ass confided ta Danny, "just a rental thang. My fuckin Bessie's on tha other end yo, but it ain't no stoppin cause I be still poppin'. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. She's a cold-ass lil car. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. 1950 Cadillac, n' do she run dope, biatch? I'll tell tha ghetto. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. I keep her up in Florida cuz she's too oldschool fo' all dis mountain climbing. Yo ass need a hand wit that?"

"Fuck dat shit, sir," Danny holla'd. Dude managed ta carry it tha last ten or twelve steps without gruntin n' set it down wit a big-ass bust a funky-ass big-ass fart of relief.

"Dope boy," Hallorann holla'd. Dude produced a big-ass key rang from tha pocket of his blue serge jacket n' unlocked tha trunk fo' realz. As he lifted tha bags up in da perved-out muthafucka holla'd: "Yo ass shine on, pimp yo. Harder than mah playas I eva kicked it wit up in mah game fo' realz. And I'm sixty muthafuckin years oldschool dis January."

"Huh?"

"Yo ass gots a knack," Hallorann holla'd, turnin ta his muthafuckin ass. "Me, I've always called it shining. That's what tha fuck mah grandmutha called it, like a muthafucka. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch had dat shit. We used ta sit up in tha kitchen when I was a funky-ass pimp no olda than you n' have long talks without even openin our grills."

"Really?"

Hallorann smiled at Danny's openmouthed, almost horny expression n' holla'd, "Come on up n' sit up in tha hoopty wit me fo' all dem minutes. Want ta rap ta you, biatch." Dude slammed tha trunk.

In tha lobby of tha Overlook, Wendy Torrizzle saw her lil hustla git tha fuck into tha passenger side of Hallorann's hoopty as tha big-ass black cook slid up in behind tha wheel fo' realz. A sharp pang of fear struck her n' she opened her grill ta tell Jack dat Hallorann had not been lyin bout takin they lil hustla ta Florida-there was a kidnapin afoot. But they was only chillin there, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch could barely peep tha lil' small-ass silhouette of her son's head, turned attentively toward Hallorann's big-ass one. Even at dis distizzle dat lil' small-ass head had a set ta it dat she recognizedit was tha way her lil hustla looked when there was suttin' on tha TV dat particularly fascinated him, or when he n' his wild lil' daddy was playin oldschool maid or idiot cribbage. Jack, whoz ass was still lookin round fo' Ullman, hadn't noticed. Wendy kept silent, watchin Hallorann's hoopty nervously, wonderin what tha fuck they could possibly be poppin' off bout dat would make Danny ding-a-ling -his head dat way.

In tha hoopty Hallorann was saying: "Git you kinda lonely, thinkin you was tha only one?"

Danny, whoz ass had been frightened as well as lonely sometimes, nodded. "Am I tha only one you eva met?" he asked.

Hallorann laughed n' shook his head. "Fuck dat shit, child, no. But you shine tha hardest."

"Is there lots, then?"

"No," Hallorann holla'd, "but you do run across dem wild-ass muthafuckas fo' realz. All dem folks, they gots a lil bit of shine ta dem wild-ass muthafuckas. They don't oven know dat shit. But they always seem ta show up wit flowers when they wives is feelin blue wit tha monthlies, they do phat on school tests they don't even study for, they gots a phat scam how tha fuck playas is feelin as soon as they strutt tha fuck into a room. I come across fifty or sixty like dis shit. But maybe only a thugged-out dozen, countin mah gram, dat knew they was shinin."

"Fuck dat shit," Danny holla'd, n' thought bout dat shit. Then: "Do you know Mrs. Brant?"

"Her?" Hallorann axed scornfully. "Bitch don't shine. Just sendz her supper back two-three times every last muthafuckin night."

"I know her dope ass don't," Danny holla'd earnestly. "But do you know tha playa up in tha gray uniform dat gets tha cars?"

"Mike, biatch? Sure, I know Mike. What bout him?"

"Mista Muthafuckin yo. Hallorann, why would dat biiiiatch want his thugged-out lil' pants?"

"What is you poppin' off about, boy?"

"Well, when dat biiiiatch was watchin him, dat biiiiatch was thankin dat biiiiatch would shizzle like ta git tha fuck into his baggy-ass pants n' I just wondered why-"

But he gots no further n' shiznit yo. Hallorann had thrown his head back, n' rich, dark laughta issued from his chest, rollin round up in tha hoopty like cannonfire. Da seat shook wit tha force of dat shit. Danny smiled, puzzled, n' at last tha storm subsided by fits n' starts yo. Hallorann produced a big-ass silk handkerchizzle from his breast pocket like a white flag of surrender n' wiped his streamin eyes.

"Boy," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, still snortin a lil, "yo ass is gonna know every last muthafuckin thang there is ta know bout tha human condizzle before you make ten. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I dunno if ta envy you or not."

"But Mrs. Brant-"

"Yo ass never mind her," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. "And don't go askin yo' mom, either n' shit. You'd only upset her, dig what tha fuck I'm sayin?"

"Yes, sir," Danny holla'd. Dude dug it perfectly well yo. Dude had upset his crazy-ass mutha dat way up in tha past.

"That Mrs. Brant is just a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty oldschool biatch wit a itch, that's all you gotta know." Dude looked at Danny speculatively. "How tha fuck hard can you hit, doc?"

"Huh?"

"Give me a funky-ass blast. Think all up in mah face. I wanna know if you gots as much as I be thinkin you do."

"What do you want me ta think?"

"Anything. Just be thinkin it hard."

"Okay," Danny holla'd. Dude considered it fo' a moment, then gathered his concentration n' flung it up at Hallorann. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude had never done anythang precisely like dis before, n' all up in tha last instant some instinctizzle part of his ass rose up n' blunted a shitload of tha thought's raw force-he didn't wanna hurt Mista Muthafuckin yo. Hallorann. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Still tha thought arrowed outta his ass wit a gangbangin' force he never would have believed. Well shiiiit, it went like a Nolan Ryan fastbizzle wit a lil extra on dat shit.

(Gee I hope I don't hurt him)

And tha thought was:

(!!! HI, DICK!!!)

Hallorann winced n' jerked bac kward on tha seat yo. His teeth came together wit a hard click, drawin blood from his fuckin lower lip up in a thin trickle yo. His handz flew up involuntarily from his fuckin lap ta tha level of his chest n' then settled back again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. For a moment his wild lil' fuckin eyelidz fluttered limply, wit no conscious control, n' Danny was frightened.

"Mista Muthafuckin yo. Hallorann, biatch? Dick, biatch? Is you aiiight?"

"I don't know," Hallorann holla'd, n' laughed weakly. "I real ta Dogg don't. My fuckin God, boy, you're a pistol."

"I'm sorry," Danny holla'd, mo' alarmed. "Should I git mah daddy, biatch? I'll run n' git his muthafuckin ass."

"Fuck dat shit, here I come. I'm aiiight, Danny. Yo ass just sit right there, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. I feel a lil scrambled, that's all."

"I didn't go as hard as I could," Danny confessed. "I was scared to, all up in tha last minute."

"Probably mah phat luck you done did... mah domes would be leakin up mah ears." Dude saw tha alarm on Danny's grill n' smiled. "No harm done. What done did it feel like ta yo slick ass?"

"Like I was Nolan Ryan throwin a gangbangin' fastball," he replied promptly.

"Yo ass like baseball, do yo slick ass?" Hallorann was rubbin his cold-ass templez gingerly.

"Daddy n' mah crazy ass like tha Angels," Danny holla'd. "Da Red Sox up in tha Gangsta League Eastside n' tha Angels up in tha West. We saw tha Red Sox against Cincinnati up in tha Ghetto Series. Put ya muthafuckin choppers up if ya feel dis! I was a shitload lilr then. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. And Daddy was..." Danny's grill went dark n' shitd.

"Was what, Dan?"

"I forget," Danny holla'd. Dude started ta put his cold-ass thumb up in his crazy-ass grill ta suck it yo, but dat was a funky-ass baby trick yo. Dude put his hand back up in his fuckin lap.

"Yo ass betta tell what tha fuck yo' momma n' daddy is thinking, Danny?" Hallorann was watchin his ass closely.

"Most times, if I want to. But probably I don't try."

"Why not?"

"Well..." he paused a moment, shitd. "It would be like peekin tha fuck into tha bedroom n' watchin while they're bustin tha thang dat make babies. Put ya muthafuckin choppers up if ya feel dis! Do you know dat thang?"

"I have had acquaintizzle wit it," Hallorann holla'd gravely.

"They wouldn't like dis shiznit fo' realz. And they wouldn't like me peekin at they thinks. Well shiiiit, it would be dirty."

"I see."

"But I know how tha fuck they're feeling," Danny holla'd. "I can't help dis shit. I know how tha fuck you're feeling, like a muthafucka. I hurt you, biatch. I'm sorry bout dat bullshit."

"It's just a headache. I've had hangovers dat was worse. Yo ass betta read other people, Danny?"

"I can't read yet at all," Danny holla'd, "except all dem lyrics. But Daddy's goin ta teach me dis winter n' shit. My fuckin daddy used ta teach readin n' freestylin up in a funky-ass big-ass school. Mostly writin yo, but he knows reading, like a muthafucka."

"I mean, can you tell what tha fuck anybody is thinking?"

Danny thought bout dat shit.

"I can if it's loud," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd finally. "Like Mrs. Brant n' tha pants, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. Or like once, when me n' Mommy was up in dis big-ass store ta git me some shoes, there was dis big-ass kid lookin at radios, n' da thug was thankin bout takin one without buyin dat shit. Then he'd think, what tha fuck if I git caught, biatch? Then he'd think, I straight-up want dat shit. Then he'd be thinkin bout gettin caught again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude was makin his dirty ass sick bout it, n' da thug was makin me sick. Mommy was poppin' off ta tha playa whoz ass sells tha Nikes so I went over n' holla'd, `Kid, don't take dat radio. Go away. ' And he gots straight-up trippin like a muthafucka yo. Dude went away fast."

Hallorann was grinnin broadly. "I bet da ruffneck done did. Yo ass betta do anythang else, Danny, biatch? Is it only thoughts n' vibe, or is there more?"

Cautiously: "Is there mo' fo' yo slick ass?"

"Sometimes," Hallorann holla'd. "Not often. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Sometimes... sometimes there be dreams. Boy it's gettin hot, yes indeed it is. Do you dream, Danny?"

"Sometimes," Danny holla'd, "I trip when I'm awake fo' realz. Afta Tony comes." His thumb wanted ta go tha fuck into his crazy-ass grill again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude had never holla'd at mah playas but Mommy n' Daddy bout Tony yo. Dude made his cold-ass thumb-suckin hand go back tha fuck into his fuckin lap.

"Who's Tony?"

And suddenly Danny had one of dem flashez of understandin dat frightened his ass most of all; dat shiznit was like a sudden glimpse of some incomprehensible machine dat might be safe or might be deadly dangerous yo. Dude was too lil' ta know which yo. Dude was too lil' ta understand.

"What's wrong?" his schmoooove ass cried. "You're askin me all dis cuz you're worried, aren't yo slick ass, biatch? Why is you worried bout me son, biatch? Why is you worried bout us?"

Hallorann put his big-ass dark handz on tha lil' small-ass boy's shoulders. "Stop," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. It's probably nothin. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. But if it is somethin... well, you've gots a big-ass thang up in yo' head, Danny. You'll gotta do a shitload of growin yet before you catch up ta it, I guess. Yo ass gots ta be brave bout dat shit."

"But I don't KNOW thangsl" Danny burst out. "I do but I don't son! People... they feel thangs n' I feel dem yo, but I don't know what tha fuck I'm feeling!" Dude looked down at his fuckin lap wretchedly. "I wish I could read. Sometimes Tony shows me signs n' I can hardly read any of dem wild-ass muthafuckas."

"Who's Tony?" Hallorann axed again.

"Mommy n' Daddy call his ass mah `invisible playmate,"' Danny holla'd, recitin tha lyrics carefully. "But he's straight-up real. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack fo' realz. At least, I be thinkin he is. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Sometimes, when I try real hard ta KNOW thangs, his schmoooove ass comes yo. Dude says, 'Danny, I wanna show you something. ' And it's like I pass out. Only... there be dreams, like you holla'd." Dude looked at Hallorann n' swallowed. "They used ta be sick. But now, nahmeean?.. I can't remember tha word fo' trips dat scare you n' make you cry like a muthafucka."

"Nightmares?" Hallorann asked.

"Yes yes y'all. That's right. Nightmares."

"Bout dis place, biatch? Bout tha Overlook?"

Danny looked down at his cold-ass thumb-suckin hand again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. "Yes," da thug whispered. Then da perved-out muthafucka was rappin shrilly, lookin up tha fuck into Hallorann's face: "But I can't tell mah daddy, n' you can't, either playa! Dude has ta have dis thang cuz it's tha only one Uncle Al could git fo' his ass n' dat schmoooove muthafucka has ta finish his thugged-out lil' play or he might start bustin tha Shiznitty Thin again n' again n' again n' I know what tha fuck dat is, it's gettin faded, that's what tha fuck it is, it's when he used ta always be faded n' dat was a Shiznitty Thin ta do!" Dude stopped, on tha verge of tears.

"Shh," Hallorann holla'd, n' pulled Danny's grill against tha rough serge of his jacket. Well shiiiit, it smelled faintly of mothballs. "That's all right, son. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. And if dat thumb likes yo' grill, let it go where it wants." But his wild lil' grill was shitd.

Dude holla'd: "What you got, son, I call it shinin on, tha Bizzle calls it havin visions, n' there's scientists dat call it precognition. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I've read up on it, son. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I've studied on dat shit. They all mean seein tha future. Do you KNOW that?"

Danny nodded against Hallorann's coat.

"I remember tha strongest shine I eva had dat way... I'm not liable ta forget. Dat shiznit was 1955. I was still up in tha Army then, stationed overseas up in Westside Germany. Dat shiznit was a minute before supper, n' I was standin by tha sink, givin one of tha KPs hell fo' takin too much of tha potato along wit tha peel. I says, 'Here, lemme show you how tha fuck that's done. ' Dude held up tha potato n' tha peela n' then tha whole kitchen was gone. Bang, just like dis shit. Yo ass say you peep dis muthafucka Tony before... before you have dreams?"

Danny nodded.

Hallorann put a arm round his muthafuckin ass. "With me it's smellin oranges fo' realz. All dat afternoon I'd been smellin dem n' thinkin nothin of it, cuz they was on tha menu fo' dat nightwe had thirty cratez of Valencias. All Y'all up in tha damn kitchen was smellin oranges dat night.

"For a minute dat shiznit was like I had just passed up fo' realz. And then I heard a explosion n' saw flames. There was playas screaming. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Sirens fo' realz. And I heard dis hissin noise dat could only be steam. Then it seemed like I gots a lil closer ta whatever dat shiznit was n' I saw a railroad hoopty off tha tracks n' layin on its side wit Georgia aced Downtown Carolina Railroad freestyled on it, n' I knew like a gangbangin' flash dat mah brutha Carl was on dat train n' it jumped tha tracks n' Carl was dead as fuckin fried chicken. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Just like dis shit. Then dat shiznit was gone n' here's dis scared, wack lil KP up in front of me, still holdin up dat potato n' tha peela n' shiznit yo. Dude says, 'Is you aiiight, Sarge?' And I says, `No. My fuckin brother's just been capped down up in Georgia' And when I finally gots mah momma on tha overseas telephone, dat dunkadelic hoe holla'd at mah crazy ass how tha fuck it was.

"But see, boy, I already knew how tha fuck it was."

Dude shook his head slowly, as if dismissin tha memory, n' looked down all up in tha wide-eyed boy.

"But tha thang you gots ta remember, mah boy, is this: Those thangs don't always come true. I remember just four muthafuckin years ago I had a thang cookin at a thugs' camp up in Maine on Long Lake. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So I be sittin by tha boardin gate at Logan Airport up in Boston, just waitin ta git on mah flight, n' I start ta smell oranges. For tha last time up in maybe five years. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So I say ta mah dirty ass, 'My fuckin God, what's comin on dis wild-ass late show now?' n' I gots down ta tha bathroom n' sat on one of tha toilets ta be private. I never did black up yo, but I started ta git dis feelin, stronger n' stronger, dat mah plane was gonna crash. Then tha feelin went away, n' tha smell of oranges, n' I knew dat shiznit was over n' shit. I went back ta tha Delta Airlines desk n' chizzled mah flight ta one three minutes later n' shiznit fo' realz. And do you know what tha fuck happened?"

"What?" Danny whispered.

"Nothin!" Hallorann holla'd, n' laughed. Dude was relieved ta peep tha pimp smile a lil, like a muthafucka. "Not one single thangl That oldschool plane landed right on time n' without a single bump or bruise. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So you see... sometimes dem feelins don't come ta anything."

"Oh," Danny holla'd.

"Or you take tha race track. I go a lot, n' I probably do pretty well. I stand by tha rail when they go by tha startin gate, n' sometimes I git a lil shine bout dis cow or dat one. Usually dem feelins help me git real well. I always tell mah dirty ass dat somedizzle I'm gonna git three at once on three long shots n' make enough on tha trifecta ta retire early. Well shiiiit, it ain't happened yet. But there's nuff times I've come home from tha track on shank's mare instead of up in a taxicab wit mah wallet swollen up. No Muthafucka shines on all tha time, except maybe fo' Dogg up in heaven."

"Yes, sir," Danny holla'd, thankin of tha time almost a year ago when Tony had flossed his ass a freshly smoked up baby lyin up in a cold-ass lil crib at they doggy den up in Stovington. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude had been straight-up buckwild bout that, n' had waited, knowin dat it took time yo, but there had been no freshly smoked up baby.

"Now you listen," Hallorann holla'd, n' took both of Danny's handz up in his own. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. "I've had some shitty trips here, n' I've had some shitty feelins. I've hit dat shiznit here two seasons now n' maybe a thugged-out dozen times I've had... well, nightmares fo' realz. And maybe half a thugged-out dozen times I've thought I've peeped thangs. Fuck dat shit, I won't say what. Well shiiiit, it ain't fo' a lil pimp like you, biatch. Just nasty thangs. Once it had suttin' ta do wit dem damn hedges clipped ta be lookin like muthafuckas fo' realz. Another time there was a maid, Delores Vickery her name was, n' dat freaky freaky biatch had a lil shine ta her yo, but I don't be thinkin she knew dat shit. Mista Muthafuckin Ullman fired her muthafuckin ass... do you know what tha fuck dat is, doc?"

"Yes, sir," Danny holla'd candidly, "my daddy gots fired from his cold-ass teachin thang n' that's why we're up in Colorado, I guess."

"Well, Ullman fired her on account of her sayin she'd peeped suttin' up in one of tha rooms where... well, where a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shitty-ass thang happened. That was up in Room 217, n' I want you ta promise me you won't go up in there, Danny. Not all winter n' shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Steer right clear."

"All right," Danny holla'd. "Did tha lady-the maiden-did she ask you ta go look?"

"Yes, her dope ass done did. And there was a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shitty-ass thang there, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. But... I don't be thinkin dat shiznit was a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shitty-ass thang dat could hurt mah playas, Danny, that's what tha fuck I'm tryin ta say. Muthafuckas whoz ass shine can sometimes peep thangs dat is gonna happen, n' I be thinkin sometimes they can peep thangs dat did happen. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. But they're just like pictures up in a funky-ass book. Did yo dirty ass eva peep a picture up in a funky-ass book dat scared you, Danny?"

"Yes," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, thankin of tha rap of Bluebeard n' tha picture where Bluebeard's freshly smoked up hoe opens tha door n' sees all tha heads.

"But you knew it couldn't hurt you, didn't yo slick ass?"

"Ye-ess..." Danny holla'd, a lil dubious.

"Well, that's how tha fuck it is up in dis hotel. I don't know why yo, but it seems dat all tha shitty thangs dat eva happened here, there's lil piecez of dem thangs still layin round like fingernail clippins or tha boogers dat some muthafucka nasty just wiped under a cold-ass lil chair. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. I don't know why it should just be here, there's shitty goings-on up in just bout every last muthafuckin hotel up in tha ghetto, I guess, n' I've hit dat shiznit up in a shitload of dem n' had no shit. Only here, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. But Danny, I don't be thinkin dem thangs can hurt anybody." Dude emphasized each word up in tha sentence wit a mild shake of tha boy's shoulders. "So if you should peep something, up in a hallway or a room or outside by dem hedges... just look tha other way n' when you look back, it'll be gone. Is you diggin me son?"

"Yes," Danny holla'd. Dude felt much better, soothed. Dude gots up on his knees, busted Hallorann's cheek, n' gave his ass a funky-ass big-ass hard hug yo. Hallorann hugged his ass back.

When he busted out tha pimp he asked: "Yo crazy-ass folks, they don't shine, do they?"

"Fuck dat shit, I don't be thinkin so."

"I tried dem like I did you," Hallorann holla'd. "Yo crazy-ass momma jumped tha tiniest bit. I be thinkin all mothers shine a lil, you know, at least until they lil playas grow up enough ta peep up fo' theyselves. Yo crazy-ass dad..."

Hallorann paused momentarily yo. Dude had probed all up in tha boy's daddy n' he just didn't know. Well shiiiit, it wasn't like meetin one of mah thugs whoz ass had tha shine, or one of mah thugs whoz ass definitely did not. Pokin at Danny's daddy had been... strange, as if Jack Torrizzle had something-something-that da thug was hiding. Or suttin' da thug was holdin up in so deeply submerged up in his dirty ass dat dat shiznit was impossible ta git to.

"I don't be thinkin da perved-out muthafucka shines at all," Hallorann finished. "So you don't worry bout dem wild-ass muthafuckas. Yo ass just take care of you, biatch. I don't be thinkin there's anythang here dat can hurt you, biatch. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So just be cool, aiiight?"

"Okay."

"Danny dawwwwg! Yo, doc!"

Danny looked around. "That's Mom. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch wants mah dirty ass. I have ta bounce tha fuck out."

"I know you do," Hallorann holla'd. "Yo ass gotz a phat time here, Danny. Best you can, anyway."

"I will. Thanks, Mista Muthafuckin yo. Hallorann. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I feel a shitload better."

Da smilin thought came up in his crazy-ass mind:

(Dick, ta mah playas) (Yes, Dick, aiiight)

Their eyes met, n' Dick Hallorann winked.

Danny scrambled across tha seat of tha hoopty n' opened tha passenger side door fo' realz. As da thug was gettin out, Hallorann holla'd, "Danny?"

"What?"

"If there Is shit... you give a cold-ass lil call fo' realz. A big-ass bangin holla like tha one you gave all dem minutes ago. I might hear you even way down up in Florida fo' realz. And if I do, I'll come on tha run."

"Okay," Danny holla'd, n' smiled.

"Yo ass take care, big-ass boy."

"I will."

Danny slammed tha door n' ran across tha parkin lot toward tha porch, where Wendy stood holdin her elbows against tha chill wind. Hallorann peeped it, tha big-ass grin slowly fading.

I don't be thinkin there's anythang here dat can hurt you, biatch.

I don't think.

But what tha fuck if da thug was wrong, biatch? Dude had known dat dis was his fuckin last season all up in tha Overlook eva since dat schmoooove muthafucka had peeped dat thang up in tha bathtub of Room 217. Well shiiiit, it had been worse than any picture up in any book, n' from here tha pimp hustlin ta his crazy-ass mutha looked so small...

I don't think-

His eyes drifted down ta tha topiary muthafuckas.

Abruptly da perved-out muthafucka started tha hoopty n' put it up in gear n' drove away, tryin not ta look back fo' realz. And of course da ruffneck did, n' of course tha porch was empty. They had gone back inside. Dat shiznit was as if tha Overlook had swallowed dem wild-ass muthafuckas.

Chapta 12. Da Grand Tour
"What was you poppin' off about, hon?" Wendy axed his ass as they went back inside.

"Oh, not a god damn thang much."

"For not a god damn thang much it shizzle was a long-ass talk."

Dude shrugged n' Wendy saw Danny's paternitizzle up in tha gesture; Jack could hardly have done it betta his dirty ass. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch would git no mo' outta Danny. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch felt phat exasperation mixed wit a even stronger love: tha ludd was helpless, tha exasperation came from a gangbangin' feelin dat dat biiiiatch was deliberately bein excluded. With tha two of dem round her big-ass booty sometimes felt like a outsider, a lil' bit playa whoz ass had accidentally wandered back onstage while tha main action was takin place. Well, they wouldn't be able ta exclude her dis winter, her two exasperatin males; quartas was goin ta be a lil too close fo' dis shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch suddenly realized dat biiiiatch was feelin jealouz of tha closenizz between her homeboy n' her son, n' felt ashamed. That was too close ta tha way her own mutha might have felt... too close fo' comfort.

Da lobby was now empty except fo' Ullman n' tha head desk clerk (they was all up in tha register, cheddain up), a cold-ass lil couple maidz whoz ass had chizzled ta warm slacks n' sweaters, standin by tha front door n' lookin up wit they luggage pooled round them, n' Watson, tha maintenizzle man. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude caught her lookin at his ass n' gave her a wink... a thugged-out decidedly lecherous one. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch looked away hurriedly. Jack was over by tha window just outside tha restaurant, studyin tha view yo. Dude looked rapt n' dreamy.

Da chedda regista apparently checked out, cuz now Ullman ran it shut wit a authoritatizzle snap yo. Dude initialed tha tape n' put it up in a lil' small-ass zipper case. Wendy silently applauded tha head clerk, whoz ass looked pimped outly relieved. Ullman looked like tha type of playa whoz ass might take any shortage outta tha head clerk's hide... without eva spillin a thugged-out drop of blood. I be fly as a gangbangin' falcon, soarin all up in tha sky dawwwwg! Wendy didn't much care fo' Ullman or his officious, ostentatiously bustlin manner n' shiznit yo. Dude was like every last muthafuckin boss she'd eva had, thug or female yo. Dude would be saccharin dope wit tha guests, a petty tyrant when da thug was backstage wit tha help. But now school was up n' tha head clerk's pleasure was freestyled big-ass on his wild lil' face. Dat shiznit was up fo' mah playas but she n' Jack n' Danny, anyway.

"Mista Muthafuckin Torrance," Ullman called peremptorily. "Would you come over here, please, biatch? "

Jack strutted over, noddin ta Wendy n' Danny dat they was ta come like a muthafucka.

Da clerk, whoz ass had gone tha fuck into tha back, now came up again n' again n' again bustin a overcoat. "Have a pleasant winter, Mista Muthafuckin Ullman."

"I doubt it," Ullman holla'd distantly. "May twelfth, Braddock. Not a thugged-out dizzle earlier n' shit. Not a thugged-out dizzle later."

"Yes, sir."

Braddock strutted round tha desk, his wild lil' grill sober n' dignified, as befitted his thugged-out lil' posizzle yo, but when his back was entirely ta Ullman, he grinned like a schoolboy yo. Dude was rappin briefly ta tha two hoes still waitin by tha door fo' they ride, n' da thug was followed up by a funky-ass brief burst of stifled laughter.

Now Wendy fuckin started ta notice tha silence of tha place. Well shiiiit, it had fallen over tha hotel like a heavy blanket mutin every last muthafuckin thang but tha faint pulse of tha afternoon wind outside. From where her big-ass booty stood dat thugged-out biiiatch could look all up in tha inner office, now neat ta tha deal wit sterilitizzle wit its two bare desks n' two setz of gray filin cabinets, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. Beyond dat dat thugged-out biiiatch could peep Hallorann's spotless kitchen, tha big-ass portholed double doors propped open by rubber wedges.

"I thought I would take all dem extra minutes n' show you all up in tha Hotel," Ullman holla'd, n' Wendy reflected dat you could always hear dat capital H up in Ullman's voice. Yo ass was supposed ta hear dat shit. "I'm shizzle yo' homeboy will git ta know tha ins n' outz of tha Overlook like well, Mrs. Torrizzle yo, but you n' yo' lil hustla will doubtless keep mo' ta tha lobby level n' tha straight-up original gangsta floor, where yo' quartas are."

"Doubtless," Wendy murmured demurely, n' Jack blasted her a private glance.

"It's a funky-ass dope place," Ullman holla'd expansively. "I rather trip off showin it off."

I'll bet you do, Wendy thought.

"Let's go up ta third n' work our way down," Ullman holla'd. Dude sounded positively enthused.

"If we're keepin you-" Jack fuckin started.

"Not at all," Ullman holla'd: "Da shop is shut. Tout fins, fo' dis season, at least fo' realz. And I plan ta overnight up in Boulder-at tha Boulderado, of course. Only decent hotel dis side of Denver... except fo' tha Overlook itself, of course. This way."

They stepped tha fuck into tha elevator together n' shit. Dat shiznit was ornately scrolled up in copper n' brass yo, but it settled appreciably before Ullman pulled tha gate across. Danny stirred a lil uneasily, n' Ullman smiled down at his muthafuckin ass. Danny tried ta smile back without notable success.

"Don't you worry, lil dude," Ullman holla'd. "Safe as houses."

"So was tha Titanic," Jack holla'd, lookin up all up in tha cut-glass globe up in tha centa of tha elevator ceiling. Wendy bit tha inside of her cheek ta keep tha smile away.

Ullman was not amused. Dude slid tha inner gate across wit a rattle n' a funky-ass bang. "Da Titanic made only one voyage, Mista Muthafuckin Torrance. This elevator has made thousandz of dem since dat shiznit was installed up in 1926."

"That's reassuring," Jack holla'd. Dude ruffed Danny's hair. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. "Da plane ain't gonna crash, doc."

Ullman threw tha lever over, n' fo' a moment there was not a god damn thang but a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shudderin beneath they feet n' tha tortured whine of tha motor below dem wild-ass muthafuckas. Wendy had a vision of tha four of dem bein trapped between floors like flies up in a funky-ass forty n' found up in tha spring... wit lil bits n' pieces gone... like tha Donner Party...

(Quit dat shiznit son!)

Da elevator fuckin started ta rise, wit some vibration n' clashin n' bangin from below at first. Then tha ride smoothed up fo' realz. At tha third floor Ullman brought dem ta a funky-ass bumpy stop, retracted tha gate, n' opened tha door. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Da elevator hoopty was still six inches below floor level. Danny gazed all up in tha difference up in height between tha third-floor hall n' tha elevator floor as if dat schmoooove muthafucka had just sensed tha universe was not as sane as dat schmoooove muthafucka had been holla'd at. Ullman cleared his cold-ass throat n' raised tha hoopty a lil, brought it ta a stop wit a jerk (still two inches low), n' they all climbed out. With they weight gone tha hoopty rebounded almost ta floor level, suttin' Wendy did not find reassurin at all. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Safe as houses or not, she resolved ta take tha stairs when dat freaky freaky biatch had ta go up or down up in dis place fo' realz. And under no conditions would she allow tha three of dem ta git tha fuck into tha rickety thang together.

"What is you lookin at, doc?" Jack inquired humorously. "See any spots there?"

"Of course not," Ullman holla'd, nettled. "All tha rugs was shampooed just two minutes ago."

Wendy glanced down all up in tha hall runner her muthafuckin ass. Pretty yo, but definitely not anythang dat biiiiatch would chizzle fo' her own home, if tha dizzle eva came when dat freaky freaky biatch had one. Deep blue pile, dat shiznit was entwined wit what tha fuck seemed ta be a surrealistic jungle scene full of ropes n' vines n' trees filled wit horny-ass birds. Dat shiznit was hard ta tell just what tha fuck sort of birds, cuz all tha interweavin was done up in unshaded black, givin only silhouettes.

"Do you like tha rug?" Wendy axed Danny.

"Yes, Mom," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd colorlessly.

They strutted down tha hall, which was comfortably wide. Da wallpaper was silk, a lighta blue ta go against tha rug. Electric flambeaux stood at ten-foot intervals at a height of bout seven Nikes. Fashioned ta be lookin like London gas lamps, tha bulbs was maxed behind cloudy, cream-hued glass dat was bound wit crisscrossin iron strips.

"I wanna bust a nut on dem straight-up much," her big-ass booty holla'd.

Ullman nodded, pleased. "Mista Muthafuckin Derwent shitty dem installed all up in tha Hotel afta tha war-number Two, I mean. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. In fact most-although not all-of tha thirdfloor decoratin scheme was his crazy-ass muthafuckin idea. This is 300, tha Presidential Suite."

Dude twisted his key up in tha lock of tha mahogany double doors n' swung dem wide. Da chillin room's wide westside exposure made dem all gasp, which had probably been Ullman's intention. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude smiled. "Quite a view, isn't it?"

"It shizzle is," Jack holla'd.

Da window ran nearly tha length of tha chillin room, n' beyond it tha sun was poised directly between two sawtoothed peaks, castin golden light across tha rock faces n' tha sugared snow on tha high tips. Da cloudz round n' behind dis picture-postcard view was also tinted gold, n' a sunbeam glinted duskily down tha fuck into tha darkly pooled firs below tha timberline.

Jack n' Wendy was so absorbed up in tha view dat they didn't look down at Danny, whoz ass was starin not up tha window but all up in tha red-and-white-striped silk wallpaper ta tha left, where a thugged-out door opened tha fuck into a interior bedroom fo' realz. And his wild lil' freakadelic gasp, which had been mingled wit theirs, had not a god damn thang ta do wit beauty.

Great splashez of dried blood, flecked wit tiny bitz of grayish-white tissue, clotted tha wallpaper n' shit. Well shiiiit, it made Danny feel sick. Dat shiznit was like a wild-ass picture drawn up in blood, a surrealistic etchin of a thugged-out dudez grill drawn back up in terror n' pain, tha grill yawnin n' half tha head pulverized-

(So if you should peep something... just look tha other way n' when you look back, it'll be gone. Is you diggin me son?)

Dude deliberately looked up tha window, bein careful ta show no expression on his wild lil' face, n' when his crazy-ass mommy's hand closed over his own tha pimpin' muthafucka took it, bein careful not ta squeeze it or give her a signal of any kind.

Da manager was sayin suttin' ta his fuckin lil' daddy bout makin shizzle ta shutta dat big-ass window so a phat wind wouldn't blow it in. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Jack was nodding. Danny looked cautiously back all up in tha wall. Da big-ass dried bloodstain was gone. Those lil gray-white flecks dat had been scattered all all up in it, they was gone, like a muthafucka.

Then Ullman was leadin dem out. Mommy axed his ass if tha pimpin' muthafucka thought tha mountains was pretty. Danny holla'd da ruffneck did, although da ruffneck didn't straight-up care fo' tha mountains, one way or tha other n' shiznit fo' realz. As Ullman was closin tha door behind them, Danny looked back over his shoulder n' shit. Da bloodstain had returned, only now dat shiznit was fresh. Dat shiznit was hustlin. Ullman, lookin directly at it, went on wit his bangin hustlin commentary bout tha hyped pimps whoz ass had stayed here, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. Danny discovered dat dat schmoooove muthafucka had bitten his fuckin lip hard enough ta make it bleed, n' dat schmoooove muthafucka had never even felt it fo' realz. As they strutted on down tha corridor, he fell tha fuck a lil bit behind tha others n' wiped tha blood away wit tha back of his hand n' thought about

(blood)

(Did Mista Muthafuckin yo. Hallorann peep blood or was it suttin' worse?)

(I don't be thinkin dem thangs can hurt you, biatch.)

There was a iron scream behind his fuckin lips yo, but da thug would not let it up yo. His mommy n' daddy could not peep such thangs; they never had. Dude would keep on tha fuckin' down-low yo. His mommy n' daddy was gangbangin each other, n' dat was a real thang. Da other thangs was just like pictures up in a funky-ass book. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Some pictures was freaky yo, but they couldn't hurt you, biatch. They... couldn't... hurt you, biatch.

Mista Muthafuckin Ullman flossed dem some other rooms on tha third floor, leadin dem all up in corridors dat twisted n' turned like a maze. They was all dopes up here, Mista Muthafuckin Ullman holla'd, although Danny didn't peep any candy yo. Dude flossed dem some rooms where a lady named Marilyn Monroe once stayed when dat biiiiatch was gangbangin a playa named Arthur Milla (Danny gots a vague understandin dat Marilyn n' Arthur had gotten a DIVORCE not long afta they was up in tha Overlook Hotel).

"Mommy?"

"What, honey?"

"If they was married, why did they have different names, biatch? Yo ass n' Daddy have tha same names."

"Yes yo, but we're not famous, Danny," Jack holla'd. "Hyped dem hoes keep they same names even afta they git hooked up cuz they names is they bread n' butter."

"Bread n' butter," Danny holla'd, straight-up mystified.

"What Daddy means is dat playas used ta like ta git all up in tha pornos n' peep Marilyn Monroe," Wendy holla'd, "but they might not like ta git all up in peep Marilyn Miller."

"Why not, biatch? She'd still be tha same lady. Wouldn't mah playas know that?"

"Yes yo, but-" Biatch looked at Jack helplessly.

"Truman Capote once stayed up in dis room," Ullman interrupted impatiently yo. Dude opened tha door. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. "That was up in mah time fo' realz. An awfully sick man. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Continental manners."

There was not a god damn thang remarkable up in any of these rooms (except fo' tha absence of dopes, which Mista Muthafuckin Ullman kept callin them), not a god damn thang dat Danny was afraid of. In fact, there was only one other thang on tha third floor dat bothered Danny, n' his schmoooove ass could not have holla'd why. Dat shiznit was tha fire extinguisher on tha wall just before they turned tha corner n' went back ta tha elevator, which stood open n' waitin like a grillful of gold teeth.

Dat shiznit was a old-fashioned extinguisher, a gangbangin' flat hose folded back a thugged-out dozen times upon itself, one end attached ta a big-ass red valve, tha other endin up in a funky-ass brass nozzle. Da foldz of tha hose was secured wit a red steel slat on a hinge. In case of a gangbangin' fire you could knock tha steel slat up n' outta tha way wit one hard push n' tha hose was yours. Danny could peep dat much; da thug was phat at seein how tha fuck thangs worked. By tha time da thug was two n' a half dat schmoooove muthafucka had been unlockin tha protectizzle gate his wild lil' daddy had installed all up in tha top of tha stairs up in tha Stovington crib yo. Dude had peeped how tha fuck tha lock worked. His daddy holla'd dat shiznit was a NACK. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Some playas had tha NACK n' some playas didn't.

This fire extinguisher was a lil olda than others dat schmoooove muthafucka had seen-the one up in tha nursery school, fo' instance-but dat was not so unusual. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack. Nonetheless it filled his ass wit faint unease, curled up there against tha light blue wallpaper like a chillin snake fo' realz. And da thug was glad when dat shiznit was outta sight round tha corner.

"Of course all tha windows gotta be shuttered," Mista Muthafuckin Ullman holla'd as they stepped back tha fuck into tha elevator. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Once again n' again n' again tha hoopty sank queasily beneath they Nikes. "But I'm particularly concerned bout tha one up in tha Presidential Suite. Da original gangsta bill on dat window was four hundred n' twenty dollars, n' dat was over thirty muthafuckin years ago. Well shiiiit, it would cost eight times dat ta replace todizzle."

"I'll shutta it," Jack holla'd.

They went down ta tha second floor where there was mo' rooms n' even mo' twists n' turns up in tha corridor. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Da light from tha windows had begun ta fade appreciably now as tha sun went behind tha mountains. Mista Muthafuckin Ullman flossed dem one or two rooms n' dat was all yo. Dude strutted past 217, tha one Dick Hallorann had warned his ass about, without slowing. Danny looked all up in tha bland number-plate on tha door wit uneasy fascination.

Then down ta tha straight-up original gangsta floor. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Mista Muthafuckin Ullman didn't show dem tha fuck into any rooms here until they had almost reached tha thickly carpeted staircase dat hustled down tha fuck into tha lobby again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. "Here is yo' quarters," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. "I be thinkin you'll find dem adequate."

They went in. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Danny was braced fo' whatever might be there, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. There was nothing.

Wendy Torrizzle felt a phat surge of relief. Da Presidential Suite, wit its cold elegance, had made her feel awkward n' clumsy-it was all straight-up well ta git on over ta some restored oldschool buildin wit a funky-ass bedroom plaque dat announced Abraham Lincoln or Franklin D. Roosevelt had slept there yo, but another thang entirely ta imagine you n' yo' homeboy lyin beneath acreagez of linen n' like gettin all up in dat ass where tha top billin pimps up in tha ghetto had once lain (da most thugged-out powerful, anyway, she amended). But dis crib was simpler, homier, almost inviting. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch thought dat thugged-out biiiatch could abide dis place fo' a season wit no pimped out difficulty.

"It's straight-up pleasant," her big-ass booty holla'd ta Ullman, n' heard tha gratitude up in her voice.

Ullman nodded. "Simple but adequate. Durin tha season, dis suite quartas tha cook n' his hoe, or tha cook n' his thugged-out apprentice."

"Mista Muthafuckin yo. Hallorann lived here?" Danny broke in.

Mista Muthafuckin Ullman inclined his head ta Danny condescendingly. "Quite so yo. Dude n' Mista Muthafuckin Nevers." Dude turned back ta Jack n' Wendy. "This is tha chillin room."

There was nuff muthafuckin chairs dat looked laid back but not expensive, a gangbangin' fruity-ass malt liquor table dat had once been high-rollin' but now had a long-ass chip gone from tha side, two bookcases (stuffed full of Reader's Digest Condensed Books n' Detectizzle Book Club trilogies from tha forties, Wendy saw wit some amusement), n' a anonymous hotel TV dat looked much less elegant than tha buffed wood consolez up in tha rooms.

"No kitchen, of course," Ullman holla'd, "but there be a thugged-out dumb-waiter n' shit. This crib is directly over tha kitchen." Dude slid aside a square of panelin n' disclosed a wide, squarer tray yo. Dude gave it a push n' it disappeared, trailin rope behind dat shit.

"It's a secret passage!" Danny holla'd excitedly ta his crazy-ass mother, momentarily forgettin all fears up in favor of dat intoxicatin shaft behind tha wall. "Just like up in Abbott n' Costello Hook up tha Monsters!"

Mista Muthafuckin Ullman frowned but Wendy smiled indulgently. Danny ran over ta tha dumbwaita n' peered down tha shaft.,

"This way, please."

Dude opened tha door on tha far side of tha livin room. Well shiiiit, it gave on tha bedroom, which was spacious n' airy. There was twin beds. Wendy looked at her homeboy, smiled, shrugged.

"No problem," Jack holla'd. "We'll push dem together."

Mista Muthafuckin Ullman looked over his shoulder, straight-up puzzled. "Beg pardon?"

"Da beds," Jack holla'd pleasantly. "We can push dem together."

"Oh, quite," Ullman holla'd, momentarily confused. Then his wild lil' grill cleared n' a red flush fuckin started ta creep up from tha collar of his shirt. "Whatever you like."

Dude hustled dem back tha fuck into tha chillin room, where a second door opened on a second bedroom, dis one equipped wit bunk bedz fo' realz. A radiator clanked up in one corner, n' tha rug on tha floor was a hideous embroidery of westside sage n' cactus-Danny shitty already fallen up in ludd wit it, Wendy saw. Da wallz of dis smalla room was paneled up in real pine.

"Think you can stand it up in here, doc?" Jack asked.

"Sure I can. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I'm goin ta chill up in tha top bunk. Okay?"

"If that's what tha fuck you want."

"I wanna bust a nut on tha rug, like a muthafucka. Mista Muthafuckin Ullman, why don't you have all tha rugs like that?"

Mista Muthafuckin Ullman looked fo' a moment as if dat schmoooove muthafucka had sunk his cold-ass teeth tha fuck into a lemon. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Then da perved-out muthafucka smiled n' patted Danny's head. "Those is yo' quarters," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, "except fo' tha bath, which opens off tha main bedroom. It's not a big-ass crib yo, but of course you'll have tha rest of tha hotel ta spread up in. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da lobby fireplace is up in phat hustlin order, or so Watson drops some lyrics ta me, n' you must feel free ta smoke up in tha dinin room if tha spirit moves you ta do so." Dude was rappin up in tha tone of a playa conferrin a pimped out favor.

"All right," Jack holla'd.

"Shall we go down?" Mista Muthafuckin Ullman asked.

"Fine," Wendy holla'd.

They went downstairs up in tha elevator, n' now tha lobby was wholly deserted except fo' Watson, whoz ass was leanin against tha main doors up in a rawhide jacket, a toothpick between his fuckin lips.

"I would have thought you'd be milez from here by now," Mista Muthafuckin Ullman holla'd, his voice slightly chill.

"Just stuck round ta remind Mista Muthafuckin Torrizzle here bout tha boiler," Watson holla'd, straightenin up. "Keep yo' phat drizzle eye on her, fella, n' she'll be fine. Knock tha press down a cold-ass lil couple times a thugged-out day. It make me wanna hollar playa! Biatch creeps."

Bitch creeps, Danny thought, n' tha lyrics echoed down a long-ass n' silent corridor up in his crazy-ass mind, a cold-ass lil corridor lined wit mirrors where playas seldom looked.

"I will," his fuckin lil' daddy holla'd.

"You'll be fine," Watson holla'd, n' offered Jack his hand. Jack shook dat shit. Watson turned ta Wendy n' inclined his head. "Ma'am," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd.

"I'm pleased," Wendy holla'd, n' thought it would sound absurd. Well shiiiit, it didn't. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch had come up here from New England, where dat freaky freaky biatch had dropped her game, n' it seemed ta her dat up in all dem short sentences dis playa Watson, wit his wild lil' fluffy fringe of hair, had epitomized what tha fuck tha Westside was supposed ta be all bout fo' realz. And never mind tha lecherous wink earlier.

"Young masta Torrance," Watson holla'd gravely, n' put up his hand. Danny, whoz ass had known all bout handbobbin fo' almost a year now, put his own hand up gingerly n' felt it swallowed up. "Yo ass take phat care of em, Dan."

"Yes, sir."

Watson let go of Danny's hand n' straightened up fully yo. Dude looked at Ullman. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. "Until next year, I guess," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, n' held his hand out.

Ullman touched it bloodlessly yo. His pinky rang caught tha lobby's electric lights up in a funky-ass baleful sort of wink.

"May twelfth, Watson," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. "Not a thugged-out dizzle earlier or later."

"Yes, sir," Watson holla'd, n' Jack could almost read tha codicil up in Watson's mind:... you fuckin lil playa.

"Have a phat winter, Mista Muthafuckin Ullman."

"Oh, I doubt it," Ullman holla'd remotely.

Watson opened one of tha two big-ass main doors; tha wind whined louder n' fuckin started ta flutta tha collar of his jacket. "Yo ass folks take care now," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd.

Dat shiznit was Danny whoz ass answered. "Yes, sir, we will."

Watson, whose not-so-distant ancestor had owned dis place, slipped humbly all up in tha door. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Well shiiiit, it closed behind him, mufflin tha wind. Together they peeped his ass clop down tha porch's broad front steps up in his battered black cowboy boots, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. Brittle yellow aspen leaves tumbled round his heels as his schmoooove ass crossed tha lot ta his Internationistic Harvesta pickup n' climbed in. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Blue smoke jetted from tha rusted exhaust pipe as da perved-out muthafucka started it up. Da spell of silence held among dem as his thugged-out lil' punk-ass backed, then pulled outta tha parkin lot yo. His truck disappeared over tha brow of tha hill n' then reappeared, smaller, on tha main road, headin westside.

For a moment Danny felt mo' lonely than he eva had up in his wild lil' freakadelic game.

Chapta 13. Da Front Porch
Da Torrizzle crew stood together on tha long front porch of tha Overlook Hotel as if posin fo' a cold-ass lil crew portrait, Danny up in tha middle, zippered tha fuck into last year's fall jacket which was now too lil' small-ass n' startin ta come up all up in tha elbow, Wendy behind his ass wit one hand on his shoulder, n' Jack ta his fuckin left, his own hand restin lightly on his son's head.

Mista Muthafuckin Ullman was a step below dem yo, buttoned tha fuck into a expensive-lookin brown mohair overcoat. Da sun was entirely behind tha mountains now, edgin dem wit gold fire, makin tha shadows round thangs look long n' purple. Da only three vehiclez left up in tha parkin fuckin shitloadz was tha hotel truck, Ullman's Lincoln Continental, n' tha battered Torrizzle VW.

"You've gots yo' keys, then;" Ullman holla'd ta Jack, "and you KNOW straight-up bout tha furnace n' tha boiler?"

Jack nodded, feelin some real sympathy fo' Ullman. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Everythang was done fo' tha season, tha bizzle of strang was neatly wrapped up until next May 12-not a thugged-out dizzle earlier or later-and Ullman, whoz ass was responsible fo' all of it n' whoz ass referred ta tha hotel up in tha unmistakable tonez of infatuation, could not help lookin fo' loose ends.

"I be thinkin every last muthafuckin thang is well up in hand," Jack holla'd.

"Good. I be fly as a gangbangin' falcon, soarin all up in tha sky dawwwwg! I'll be up in touch." But da perved-out muthafucka still lingered fo' a moment, as if waitin fo' tha wind ta take a hand n' like gust his ass down ta his hoopty yo. Dude sighed. "All right yo. Have a phat winter, Mista Muthafuckin Torrance, Mrs. Torrance. Yo ass too, Danny."

"Nuff props, sir," Danny holla'd. "I hope you do, like a muthafucka."

"I doubt it," Ullman repeated, n' da perved-out muthafucka sounded sad. "Da place up in Florida be a thugged-out dump, if tha out-and-out truth is ta be spoken. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Busywork. Da Overlook is mah real thang. Take phat care of it fo' me, Mista Muthafuckin Torrance."

"I be thinkin it is ghon be here when you git back next spring," Jack holla'd, n' a thought flashed all up in Danny's mind

(but will we?)

and was gone.

"Of course. Of course it will"

Ullman looked up toward tha playground where tha hedge muthafuckas was clatterin up in tha wind. Then he nodded once mo' up in a funky-ass bidnizzlike way.

"Good-by, then."

Dude strutted quickly n' prissily across ta his car-a ridiculously big-ass one fo' such a lil man-and tucked his dirty ass tha fuck into dat shit. Da Lincoln's motor purred tha fuck into game n' tha taillights flashed as he pulled outta his thugged-out lil' parkin stall fo' realz. As tha hoopty moved away, Jack could read tha lil' small-ass sign all up in tha head of tha stall: RESERVED FOR MR. ULLMAN, MGR.

"Right," Jack holla'd softly.

They peeped until tha hoopty was outta sight, headed down tha eastsideern slope. When dat shiznit was gone, tha three of dem looked at each other fo' a silent, almost frightened moment. They was ridin' solo fo' realz. Aspen leaves whirled n' skittered up in aimless packs across tha lawn dat was now neatly mowed n' tended fo' no guest's eyes. There was no one ta peep tha autumn leaves loot across tha grass but tha three of dem wild-ass muthafuckas. Well shiiiit, it gave Jack a cold-ass lil curious shrinkin feeling, as if his wild lil' freakadelic game force had dwindled ta a mere spark while tha hotel n' tha groundz shitty suddenly doubled up in size n' become sinister, dwarfin dem wit sullen, inanimate power.

Then Wendy holla'd: "Look at you, doc. Yo crazy-ass nozzle is hustlin like a gangbangin' fire hose. Let's git inside."

And they did, closin tha door firmly behind dem against tha restless whine of tha wind.

Chapta 14. Up On tha Roof
"Oh you goddam fuckin lil hustla of a funky-ass biiiatch!"

Jack Torrizzle cried these lyrics up in both surprise n' agony as da perved-out muthafucka slapped his bangin right hand against his blue chambray workshirt, dislodgin tha big, slowmovin wasp dat had stung his muthafuckin ass. Then da thug was scramblin up tha roof as fast as his schmoooove ass could, lookin back over his shoulder ta peep if tha wasp's brothers n' sistas was risin from tha nest dat schmoooove muthafucka had uncovered ta do battle. If they were, it could be bad; tha nest was between his ass n' his fuckin ladder, n' tha trapdoor leadin down tha fuck into tha attic was locked from tha inside. Da drop was seventy feet from tha roof ta tha cement patio between tha hotel n' tha lawn.

Da clear air above tha nest was still n' undisturbed.

Jack whistled disgustedly between his cold-ass teeth, sat straddlin tha peak of tha roof, n' examined his bangin right index finger n' shit. Dat shiznit was swellin already, n' da perved-out muthafucka supposed da thug would gotta try n' creep past dat nest ta his fuckin ladder so his schmoooove ass could go down n' put some ice on dat shit.

Dat shiznit was October 20. Wendy n' Danny had gone down ta Sidewinder up in tha hotel truck (an elderly, rattlin Dodge dat was still mo' trustworthy than tha VW, which was now wheezin gravely n' seemed terminal) ta git three gallonz of gin n juice n' do some Chrizzle hustlin. Dat shiznit was early ta shop yo, but there was no spittin some lyrics ta when tha snow would come ta stay. There had already been flurries, n' up in some places tha road down from tha Overlook was slick wit patch ice.

So far tha fall had been almost preternaturally dope naaahhmean, biatch? In tha three weeks they had been here, golden dizzle had followed golden day. It make me wanna hollar playa! Crisp, thirty-degree mornings gave way ta afternoon temperatures up in tha low sixties, tha slick temperature fo' climbin round on tha Overlook's gently slopin westside roof n' bustin tha shingling. Jack had admitted freely ta Wendy dat his schmoooove ass could have finished tha thang four minutes ago yo, but he felt no real urge ta hurry. Da view from up here was spectacular, even puttin tha vista from tha Presidential Suite up in tha shade. Mo' blingin, tha work itself was soothing. On tha roof he felt his dirty ass healin from tha shitd woundz of tha last three years. On tha roof he felt at peace. Those three muthafuckin years fuckin started ta seem like a turbulent nightmare.

Da shinglez had been badly rotted, a shitload of dem blown entirely away by last winter's storms yo. Dude had ripped dem all up, yellin "Bombs away!" as da ruffneck dropped dem over tha side, not wantin Danny ta git hit up in case dat schmoooove muthafucka had wandered over n' shiznit yo. Dude had been pullin up shitty flashin when tha wasp had gotten his muthafuckin ass.

Da ironic part was dat da thug warned his dirty ass each time his schmoooove ass climbed onto tha roof ta keep a eye up fo' nests; dat schmoooove muthafucka had gotten dat bug bomb just up in case. But dis mornin tha stillnizz n' peace had been so complete dat his watchfulnizz had lapsed. Dude had been back up in tha ghetto of tha play da thug was slowly bustin, roughin up whatever scene da thug would be hustlin on dat evenin up in his head. Da play was goin straight-up well, n' although Wendy had holla'd lil, he knew dat biiiiatch was pleased. Dude had been roadblocked on tha crucial scene between Denker, tha sadistic headmaster, n' Gary Benson, his fuckin lil' hero, durin tha last unaiiight six months at Stovington, months when tha cravin fo' a thugged-out drank had been so shitty dat his schmoooove ass could barely concentrate on his crazy-ass muthafuckin in-class lectures, let ridin' solo his wild lil' fuckin extracurricular literary ambitions.

But up in tha last twelve evenings, as he straight-up sat down up in front of tha office-model Underwood dat schmoooove muthafucka had borrowed from tha main crib downstairs, tha roadblock had disappeared under his wild lil' fingers as magically as cotton candy dissolves on tha lips yo. Dude had come up almost effortlessly wit tha insights tha fuck into Denker's characta dat had always been lacking, n' dat schmoooove muthafucka had rewritten most of tha second act accordingly, makin it revolve round tha freshly smoked up scene fo' realz. And tha progress of tha third act, which dat schmoooove muthafucka had been turnin over up in his crazy-ass mind when tha wasp put a end ta cogitation, was comin clearer all tha time yo. Dude thought his schmoooove ass could rough it up in two weeks, n' gotz a cold-ass lil clean copy of tha whole damned play by New Year's.

Dude had a agent up in New York, a tough red-headed biatch named Phyllis Sandlez whoz ass smoked Herbert Tareytons, drank Jim Beam from a paper cup, n' thought tha literary sun rose n' set on Shizzle O'Casey. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch had marketed three of Jack's short stories, includin tha Esquire piece yo. Dude had freestyled her bout tha play, which was called Da Little School, describin tha basic conflict between Denker, a gifted hustla whoz ass had failed tha fuck into becomin tha brutal n' brutalizin headmasta of a turn-of-the-century New England prep school, n' Gary Benson, tha hustla da perved-out muthafucka sees as a younger version of his dirty ass. Phyllis had freestyled back expressin interest n' admonishin his ass ta read O'Casey before chillin down ta dat shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch had freestyled again n' again n' again earlier dat year askin where tha hell was tha play, biatch? Dude had freestyled back wryly dat Da Little School had been indefinitely-and like infinitely-delayed between hand n' page "in dat bangin-ass intellectual Gobi known as tha writer's block." Now it looked as if she might straight-up git tha play. Whether or not dat shiznit was any phat or if it would eva peep actual thang was another matter n' shiznit fo' realz. And da ruffneck didn't seem ta care a pimped out deal bout dem thangs yo. Dude felt up in a way dat tha play itself, tha whole thang, was tha roadblock, a cold-ass lil colossal symbol of tha shitty muthafuckin years at Stovington Prep, tha marriage dat schmoooove muthafucka had almost totaled like a nutty kid behind tha wheel of a oldschool jalopy, tha monstrous assault on his son, tha incident up in tha parkin lot wit George Hatfield, a incident his schmoooove ass could no longer view as just another sudden n' destructizzle flare of temper n' shiznit yo. Dude now thought dat part of his fuckin lil' drankin problem had stemmed from a unconscious desire ta be free of Stovington n' tha securitizzle he felt was stiflin whatever creatizzle urge dat schmoooove muthafucka had. Dude had stopped drankin yo, but tha need ta be free had been just as pimped out yo. Hence George Hatfield. Now all dat remained of dem minutes was tha play on tha desk up in his thugged-out n' Wendy's bedroom, n' when dat shiznit was done n' busted off ta Phyllis's hole-in-the-wall New York agency, his schmoooove ass could turn ta other thangs. Not a novel, da thug was not locked n loaded ta stumble tha fuck into tha swamp of another three-year undertakin yo, but surely mo' short stories. Put ya muthafuckin choppers up if ya feel dis! Perhaps a funky-ass book of dem wild-ass muthafuckas.

Movin warily, da perved-out muthafucka scrambled back down tha slope of tha roof on his handz n' knees past tha line of demarcation where tha fresh chronic Bird shinglez gave way ta tha section of roof dat schmoooove muthafucka had just finished clearin yo. Dude came ta tha edge on tha left of tha wasps' nest dat schmoooove muthafucka had uncovered n' moved gingerly toward it, locked n loaded ta backtrack n' bolt down his fuckin ladder ta tha ground if thangs looked too hot.

Dude leaned over tha section of pulled-out flashin n' looked in.

Da nest was up in there, tucked tha fuck into tha space between tha oldschool flashin n' tha final roof undercoatin of three-by-fives. Dat shiznit was a thugged-out damn big-ass one. Da grayish paper bizzle looked ta Jack as if it might be nearly two feet all up in tha center n' shit. Its shape was not slick cuz tha space between tha flashin n' tha boardz was too narrow yo, but tha pimpin' muthafucka thought tha lil buggers had still done a pimpin' respectable thang. Da surface of tha nest was acrawl wit tha lumbering, slowmovin insects, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. They was tha big-ass mean ones, not yellow jackets, which is smalla n' calmer yo, but wall wasps. They had been rendered sludgy n' wack by tha fall temperatures yo, but Jack, whoz ass knew bout wasps from his childhood, counted his dirty ass dirty dat dat schmoooove muthafucka had been stung only once fo' realz. And, tha pimpin' muthafucka thought, if Ullman had hired tha thang done up in tha height of summer, tha workman whoz ass tore up dat particular section of tha flashin would have gotten one hell of a surprise. Yes yes y'all, indeedy. When a thugged-out dozen wall wasps land on you all at once n' start stingin yo' grill n' handz n' arms, stingin yo' hairy-ass legs right all up in yo' pants, it would be entirely possible ta forget you was seventy feet up. Yo ass might just charge right off tha edge of tha roof while you was tryin ta git away from dem wild-ass muthafuckas fo' realz. All from dem lil thangs, tha freshest of dem only half tha length of a pencil stub.

Dude had read someplace-in a Sundizzle supplement piece or a funky-ass back-of-the-book newsmagazine article-that 7 per cent of all automobile fatalitizzles go unexplained. No mechanical failure, no excessive speed, no booze, no shitty drizzle n' shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Simply one-car crashes on deserted sectionz of road, one dead occupant, tha driver, unable ta explain what tha fuck had happened ta his muthafuckin ass. Da article had included a rap battle wit a state trooper whoz ass theorized dat nuff of these so-called "foo crashes" resulted from insects up in tha car. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Wasps, a funky-ass bee, possibly even a spider or moth. Da driver gets panicky, tries ta swat it or unroll a window ta let it out. Possibly tha insect stings his muthafuckin ass. Maybe tha driver just loses control. Either way it's bang!.,. all over n' shiznit fo' realz. And tha insect, probably straight-up unharmed, would buzz merrily outta tha tokin wreck, lookin fo' mo' chronic pastures. Da trooper had been up in favor of havin pathologists look fo' insect venom while autopsyin such suckas, Jack recalled.

Now, lookin down tha fuck into tha nest, it seemed ta his ass dat it could serve as both a workable symbol fo' what tha fuck dat schmoooove muthafucka had been all up in (and what tha fuck dat schmoooove muthafucka had dragged his hostages ta fortune through) n' a omen fo' a funky-ass betta future yo. How tha fuck else could you explain tha thangs dat had happened ta him, biatch? For da perved-out muthafucka still felt dat tha whole range of unaiiight Stovington experiences had ta be looked at wit Jack Torrizzle up in tha passive mode yo. Dude had not done thangs; thangs had been done ta his muthafuckin ass yo. Dude had known nuff playas on tha Stovington faculty, two of dem right up in tha Gangsta Department, whoz ass was hard drinkers. Zack Tunney was up in tha g-thang of pickin up a gangbangin' full keg of brew on Saturdizzle afternoon, plonkin it up in a funky-ass backyard snowbank overnight, n' then cappin' damn near all of it on Sundizzle watchin footbizzle game n' oldschool pornos. Yet all up in tha week Zack was as sober as a judge-a weak cocktail wit lunch was a occasion.

Dude n' Al Shockley had been alcoholics. They had sought each other up like two castoffs whoz ass was still hood enough ta prefer drownin together ta bustin it ridin' solo. Da sea had been whole-grain instead of salt, dat was all. Lookin down all up in tha wasps, as they slowly went bout they instinctual bidnizz before winta closed down ta bust a cap up in all but they hibernatin biatch, da thug would go further n' shiznit yo. Dude was still a alcoholic, always would be, like had been since Sophomore Class Night up in high school when dat schmoooove muthafucka had taken his wild lil' first drink. Well shiiiit, it had not a god damn thang ta do wit willpower, or tha moralitizzle of drinking, or tha weaknizz or strength of his own character n' shit. There was a gangbangin' fucked up switch somewhere inside, or a cold-ass lil circuit breaker dat didn't work, n' dat schmoooove muthafucka had been propelled down tha chute willynilly, slowly at first, then acceleratin as Stovington applied its pressures on his muthafuckin ass fo' realz. A big-ass grease amp; slide n' all up in tha bottom had been a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shattered, ballerless bicycle n' a lil hustla wit a gangbangin' fucked up arm. Jack Torrizzle up in tha passive mode fo' realz. And his cold-ass temper, same thang fo' realz. All his wild lil' freakadelic game dat schmoooove muthafucka had been tryin unsuccessfully ta control it yo. Dude could remember his dirty ass at seven, spanked by a neighbor lady fo' playin wit matches yo. Dude had gone up n' hurled a rock at a passin hoopty yo. His daddy had peeped that, n' dat schmoooove muthafucka had descended on lil Jacky, roarin yo. Dude had reddened Jack's behind... n' then blacked his wild lil' fuckin eye fo' realz. And when his wild lil' daddy had gone tha fuck into tha house, muttering, ta peep what tha fuck was on televizzle, Jack had come upon a stray dawg n' had kicked it tha fuck into tha gutter n' shit. There had been two dozen fights up in grammar school, even mo' of dem up in high school, warrantin two suspensions n' uncounted detentions up in spite of his wild lil' freakadelic phat grades. Footbizzle had provided a partial safety valve, although he remembered perfectly well dat dat schmoooove muthafucka had dropped almost every last muthafuckin minute of every last muthafuckin game up in a state of high piss-off, takin every last muthafuckin opposin block n' tackle personally yo. Dude had been a gangbangin' fine playa, makin All-Conference up in his junior n' ballin' years, n' he knew perfectly well dat dat schmoooove muthafucka had his own shitty temper ta thank... or ta blame yo. Dude had not enjoyed footbizzle. Kick dat shit! Every game was a grudge match.

And yet, all up in it all, dat schmoooove muthafucka hadn't felt like a lil hustla of a funky-ass biiiatch yo. Dude hadn't felt mean. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude had always regarded his dirty ass as Jack Torrance, a straight-up sick muthafucka whoz ass was just goin ta gotta learn how tha fuck ta cope wit his cold-ass temper somedizzle before it gots his ass up in shit. Da same way da thug was goin ta gotta learn how tha fuck ta cope wit his fuckin lil' drinking. But dat schmoooove muthafucka had been a wack alcatronic just as surely as dat schmoooove muthafucka had been a physical one-the two of dem was no diggity tied together somewhere deep inside him, where you'd just as soon not look. But it didn't much matta ta his ass if tha root causes was interrelated or separate, sociological or psychedelic or physiological. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack yo. Dude had had ta deal wit tha thangs up in dis biatch: tha spankings, tha whoopins from his oldschool dude, tha suspensions, wit tryin ta explain tha school threadz torn up in playground brawls, n' lata tha hangovers, tha slowly dissolvin glue of his crazy-ass marriage, tha single bicycle wheel wit its bent spokes pointin tha fuck into tha sky, Danny's fucked up arm fo' realz. And George Hatfield, of course.

Dude felt dat dat schmoooove muthafucka had unwittingly stuck his hand tha fuck into Da Great Wasps' Nest of Life fo' realz. As a image it stank fo' realz. As a cold-ass lil cameo of reality, he felt dat shiznit was serviceable yo. Dude had stuck his hand all up in some rotted flashin up in high summer n' dat hand n' his whole arm had been consumed up in holy, righteous fire, beatin tha livin shiznit outta conscious thought, makin tha concept of civilized behavior obsolete. Could you be sposed ta fuckin behave as a thankin human bein when yo' hand was bein impaled on red-hot darnin needles, biatch? Could you be sposed ta fuckin live up in tha ludd of yo' nearest n' dearest when tha brown, furious cloud rose outta tha hole up in tha fabric of thangs (the fabric you thought was so innocent) n' arrowed straight at yo slick ass, biatch? Could you be held responsible fo' yo' own actions as you ran crazily bout on tha slopin roof seventy feet above tha ground, not knowin where you was going, not rememberin dat yo' panicky, stumblin feet could lead you crashin n' blunderin right over tha drizzle gutta n' down ta yo' dirtnap on tha concrete seventy feet below, biatch? Jack didn't be thinkin you could. When you unwittingly stuck yo' hand tha fuck into tha wasps' nest, you hadn't done cooked up a cold-ass lil covenant wit tha devil ta give up yo' civilized self wit its trappingz of ludd n' respect n' honor. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Well shiiiit, it just happened ta you, biatch. Passively, wit no say, you ceased ta be a cold-ass lil creature of tha mind n' became a cold-ass lil creature of tha nerve endings; from college-educated playa ta beatboxin ape up in five easy as fuck seconds.

Dude thought bout George Hatfield.

Tall n' shaggily blond, George had been a almost insolently dope boy. In his cold-ass tight faded jeans n' Stovington sweatshirt wit tha sleeves carelessly pushed up ta tha elbows ta disclose his cold-ass tanned forearms, dat schmoooove muthafucka had reminded Jack of a lil' Robert Redford, n' da ruffneck doubted dat George had much shiznit scoring-no mo' than dat lil' footballplayin devil Jack Torrizzle had ten muthafuckin years earlier n' shiznit yo. Dude could say dat da perved-out muthafucka straight-up didn't feel jealouz of George, or envy his ass his wild lil' freakadelic phat looks; up in fact, dat schmoooove muthafucka had almost unconsciously begun ta visualize George as tha physical incarnation of his thugged-out lil' play hero, Gary Benson-the slick foil fo' tha dark, slumped, n' agin Denker, whoz ass grew ta don't give a fuck bout Gary all muthafuckin day. It make me wanna hollar playa! But he, Jack Torrance, had never felt dat way bout George. If dat schmoooove muthafucka had, da thug would have known it yo. Dude was like shizzle of all dis bullshit.

George had floated all up in his classes at Stovington. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. A soccer n' basebizzle star, his thugged-out academic program had been fairly undemandin n' dat schmoooove muthafucka had been content wit C's n' a occasionizzle B up in history or botany yo. Dude was a gangbangin' fierce field contender but a lackadaisical, amused sort of hustla up in tha classrooms Jack was familiar wit tha type, mo' from his own minutes as a high school n' college hustla than from his cold-ass teachin experience, which was at second hand. George Hatfield was a jock yo. Dude could be a cold-ass lil calm, undemandin git into in tha classroom yo, but when tha right set of competitizzle stimuli was applied (like electrodes ta tha templez of Frankenstein's monster, Jack thought wryly), his schmoooove ass could become a juggernaut.

In January, George had tried up wit two dozen others fo' tha rap battle crew yo. Dude had been like frank wit Jack yo. His daddy was a cold-ass lil corporation lawyer, n' da thug wanted his fuckin lil hustla ta follow up in his wild lil' footsteps. George, whoz ass felt no burnin call ta do anythang else, was willin yo. His grades was not top end yo, but dis was, afta all, only prep school n' dat shiznit was still early times. If should be came ta must be, his wild lil' daddy could pull some strings. George's own athletic mobilitizzle would open still other doors. But Brian Hatfield thought his fuckin lil hustla should git on tha rap battle crew. Dat shiznit was phat practice, n' dat shiznit was suttin' dat law-school admissions boardz always looked for. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So George went up fo' debate, n' up in late March Jack cut his ass from tha crew.

Da late winta inter-squad debates had fired George Hatfield's competitizzle ass yo. Dude became a grimly determined debater, preppin his thugged-out lil' pro or con posizzle fiercely. Well shiiiit, it didn't matta if tha subject was legalization of da sticky-icky-icky, reinstatin tha dirtnap penalty, or tha oil-depletion allowance. George became conversant, n' da thug was just jingoist enough ta straight-up not care which side da thug was on-a rare n' valuable trait', even up in high-level debaters, Jack knew. Da soulz of a legit carpetbagger n' a legit debata was not far removed from each other; they was both passionately horny bout tha main chance. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So far, so good.

But George Hatfield stuttered.

This was not a handicap dat had even shown up in tha classroom, where George was always def n' collected (whether dat schmoooove muthafucka had done his homework or not), n' certainly not on tha Stovington playin fields, where rap was not a virtue n' they sometimes even threw you outta tha game fo' too much discussion.

When George gots tightly wound up in a thugged-out debate, tha stutta would come out. Da mo' eager his thugged-out lil' punk-ass became, tha worse it was fo' realz. And when he felt dat schmoooove muthafucka had a opponent dead up in his sights, a intellectual sort of buck fever seemed ta take place between his rap centas n' his crazy-ass grill n' da thug would freeze solid while tha clock ran out. Dat shiznit was fucked up ta watch.

"S-S-So I th-th-think we gotta say dat tha fuh-fuh-facts up in tha c-case Mista Muthafuckin D-D-D-Dorsky cites is ren-ren-rendered obsolete by tha ruh-recent duh-duhdecision handed down inin-in... "

Da buzzer would go off n' George would whirl round ta stare furiously at Jack, whoz ass sat beside dat shit. George's grill at dem moments would be flushed, his notes crumpled spasmodically up in one hand.

Jack had held on ta George long afta dat schmoooove muthafucka had cut most of tha obvious flat tires, hopin George would work up yo. Dude remembered one late afternoon on some week before dat schmoooove muthafucka had reluctantly dropped tha ax. George had stayed afta tha others had filed out, n' then had confronted Jack angrily.

"Yo ass s-set tha timer ahead."

Jack looked up from tha papers da thug was puttin back tha fuck into his briefcase.

"George, what tha fuck is you poppin' off about?"

"I d-didn't git mah whole five mih-minutes. Yo ass set it ahead. I was wuhwatchin tha clock."

"Da clock n' tha timer may keep slightly different times, George yo, but I never touched tha dial on tha damned thang. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Scout's honor."

"Yuh-yuh-you did!"

Da belligerent, I'm-sticking-up-for-my-rights way George was lookin at his ass had sparked Jack's own temper n' shiznit yo. Dude had

been off tha sauce fo' two months, two months too long, n' da thug was ragged. Dude made one last effort ta hold his dirty ass in. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. "I assure you I did not, George. It's yo' stutter n' shit. Do you have any scam what tha fuck causes it, biatch? Yo ass don't stutta up in class."

"I duh-duh-don't s-s-st-st-stutterl"

"Lower yo' voice."

"Yo ass w-wanna g-get kicked it wit Yo ass duh-don't w-want me on yo' g-g-goddam crew!"

"Lower yo' voice, I holla'd. Let's say shit bout dis rationally."

"F-fuh-fuck th-that!"

"George, if you control yo' stutter, I'd be glad ta have you, biatch. You're well prepped fo' every last muthafuckin practice n' you're phat all up in tha background stuff, which means you're rarely surprised. But all dat don't mean much if you can't control that-"

"I've neh-neh-never stuttered!" his schmoooove ass cried out. "It's yuh-you! I i-if suhsomeone else had tha d-d-deb-debate t-team, I could-"

Jack's temper slipped another notch.

"George, you're never goin ta make much of a lawyer, corporation or otherwise, if you can't control dis shit. Law isn't like soccer n' shit. Two minutez of practice every last muthafuckin night won't cut dat shit. What is you goin ta do, stand up in front of a funky-ass board meetin n' say, `Nuh-nuh-now, g-gentlemen, bout dis t-ttort'?"

Dude suddenly flushed, not wit anger but wit shame at his own wackty. This was not a playa up in front of his ass but a seventeen-year-old pimp whoz ass was facin tha straight-up original gangsta major defeat of his wild lil' freakadelic game, n' maybe askin up in tha only way his schmoooove ass could fo' Jack ta help his ass find a way ta cope wit dat shit.

George gave his ass a gangbangin' final, furious glance, his fuckin lips twistin n' buckin as tha lyrics bottled up behind dem struggled ta find they way out.

"Yuh-yuh-you s-s-set it aheadl Yo ass huh-hate me b-because you nuh-nuh-nuh-know... you know... nuh-nuh-"

With a articulate cry dat schmoooove muthafucka had rushed outta tha classroom, slammin tha door hard enough ta make tha wire-reinforced glass rattle up in its frame. Jack had stood there, feeling, rather than hearing, tha echo of George's Adidas up in tha empty hall. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Still up in tha grip of his cold-ass temper n' his shame at mockin George's stutter, his wild lil' first thought had been a sick sort of exultation: For tha last time up in his wild lil' freakadelic game George Hatfield had wanted suttin' his schmoooove ass could not have. For tha last time there was suttin' wack dat all of Daddy's scrilla could not fix. Yo ass couldn't bribe some noize center n' shit. Yo ass couldn't offer a tongue a extra fifty a week n' a funky-ass bonus at Chrizzle if it would smoke ta stop flappin like a record needle up in a thugged-out defectizzle groove. Then tha exultation was simply buried up in shame, n' he felt tha way dat schmoooove muthafucka had afta dat schmoooove muthafucka had fucked up Danny's arm.

Dear God, I aint a lil hustla of a funky-ass biiiatch. Please.

That sick happinizz at George's retreat was mo' typical of Denker up in tha play than of Jack Torrizzle tha playwright.

Yo ass don't give a fuck bout me cuz you know...

Because he knew what?

What could he possibly know bout George Hatfield dat would make his ass don't give a fuck bout him, biatch? That his whole future lay ahead of him, biatch? That he looked a lil bit like Robert Redford n' all conversation among tha hoes stopped when da ruffneck did a thugged-out double gainer from tha pool divin board, biatch? That he played soccer n' basebizzle wit a natural, unlearned grace?

Ridiculous fo' realz. Absolutely absurd. Dude envied George Hatfield nothing. If tha real deal was known, he felt worse bout George's fucked up stutta than George his dirty ass, cuz George straight-up would have made a pimpin debater n' shiznit fo' realz. And if Jack had set tha timer ahead-and of course dat schmoooove muthafucka hadn't-it would done been cuz both he n' tha other thugz of tha squad was embarrassed fo' George's struggle, they had agonized over it tha way you agonize when tha Class Night speaker forgets a shitload of his fuckin lines. If dat schmoooove muthafucka had set tha timer ahead, it would done been just to... ta put George outta his crazy-ass misery.

But dat schmoooove muthafucka hadn't set tha timer ahead. Dude was like shizzle of dat shit.

A week lata dat schmoooove muthafucka had cut him, n' dat time dat schmoooove muthafucka had kept his cold-ass temper n' shit. Da shouts n' tha threats had all been on George's side fo' realz. A week afta dat dat schmoooove muthafucka had gone up ta tha parkin lot halfway all up in practice ta git a pile of sourcebooks dat dat schmoooove muthafucka had left up in tha trunk of tha VW n' there had been George, down on one knee wit his fuckin long blond afro swingin up in his wild lil' face, a hustlin knife up in one hand. Dude was sawin all up in tha VW's right front tire. Da back tires was already shredded, n' tha bug sat on tha fiats like a small, chillaxed dog.

Jack had peeped red, n' remembered straight-up lil of tha encounta dat followed. Dude remembered a thick growl dat seemed ta issue from his own throat: "All right, George. If that's how tha fuck you want it, just come here n' take yo' medicine."

Dude remembered George lookin up, startled n' fearful naaahhmean, biatch? Dude had holla'd: "Mista Muthafuckin Torrance-" as if ta explain how tha fuck all dis was just a mistake, tha tires had been flat when he gots there n' da thug was just cleanin dirt outta tha front treadz wit the

tip of dis guttin knife he just happened ta have wit his ass and-

Jack had waded in, his wild lil' fists held up in front of him, n' it seemed dat dat schmoooove muthafucka had been grinning. But da thug wasn't shizzle of all dis bullshit.

Da last thang be remembered was George holdin up tha knife n' saying: "Yo ass betta not come any closer-"

And tha next thang was Miss Strong, tha French mackdaddy, holdin Jack's arms, crying, screaming: "Quit it, Jack! Quit dat shiznit son! You're goin ta bust a cap up in him!"

Dude had blinked round stupidly. There was tha hustlin knife, glitterin harmlessly on tha parkin lot asphalt four yardz away. There was his Volkswagen, his skanky oldschool battered bug, veteran of nuff wild midnight fadeden rides, chillin on three fiat shoes. There was a freshly smoked up dent up in tha right front fender, da perved-out muthafucka saw, n' there was suttin' up in tha middle of tha dent dat was either red paint or blood. I be fly as a gangbangin' falcon, soarin all up in tha sky dawwwwg! For a moment dat schmoooove muthafucka had been confused, his cold-ass thoughts

(jesus christ al our crazy asses hit his ass afta all)

of dat other night. Then his wild lil' fuckin eyes had shifted ta George, George lyin dazed n' blinkin on tha asphalt yo. His rap battle crew had come up n' they was huddled together by tha door, starin at George. There was blood on his wild lil' grill from a scalp laceration dat looked minor yo, but there was also blood hustlin outta one of George's ears n' dat probably meant a cold-ass lil concussion. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. When George tried ta git up, Jack shook free of Miss Strong n' went ta his muthafuckin ass. George cringed.

Jack put his handz on George's chest n' pushed his ass back down. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. "Lie still," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. "Don't try ta move." Dude turned ta Miss Strong, whoz ass was starin at dem both wit horror.

"Please go call tha school doctor, Miss Strong," be holla'd at her n' shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch turned n' fled toward tha crib yo. Dude looked at his bangin rap battle class then, looked dem right up in tha eye cuz da thug was up in charge again, straight-up his dirty ass, n' when da thug was his dirty ass there wasn't a sickr muthafucka up in tha whole state of Vermont. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Surely they knew all dis bullshit.

"Yo ass can bounce back ta tha doggy den now," tha pimpin' muthafucka holla'd at dem on tha fuckin' down-lowly. "We'll hook up again n' again n' again tomorrow."

But by tha end of dat week six of his fuckin lil' debatas had dropped out, two of dem tha class of tha act yo, but of course it didn't matta much cuz dat schmoooove muthafucka had been informed by then dat da thug would be droppin up his dirty ass.

Yet somehow dat schmoooove muthafucka had stayed off tha bottle, n' da perved-out muthafucka supposed dat was something.

And dat schmoooove muthafucka had not hated George Hatfield. Dude was shizzle of dis shiznit yo. Dude had not acted but had been acted upon.

Yo ass don't give a fuck bout me cuz you know...

But dat schmoooove muthafucka had known nothing. Nothang yo. Dude would swear dat before tha Throne of Almighty God, just as da thug would swear dat dat schmoooove muthafucka had set tha timer ahead no mo' than a minute fo' realz. And not outta don't give a fuck bout but outta bitch ass muthafucka.

Two wasps was crawlin sluggishly bout on tha roof beside tha hole up in tha flashing.

Dude peeped dem until they spread they aerodynamically unsound but strangely efficient wings n' lumbered off tha fuck into tha October sunshine, perchizzle ta stin one of mah thugs. Dogg had peeped fit ta give dem stingers n' lack supposed they had ta use dem on some muthafucka.

How tha fuck long had his thugged-out lil' punk-ass been chillin there, lookin at dat hole wit its unpleasant surprise down inside, rakin over oldschool coals, biatch? Dude looked at his watch fo' realz. Almost half a hour.

Dude let his dirty ass down ta tha edge of tha roof, dropped one leg over, n' felt round until his wild lil' foot found tha top rung of tha ladder just below tha overhang yo. Dude would go down ta tha shiznit shed where dat schmoooove muthafucka had stored tha bug bomb on a high shelf outta Danny's reach yo. Dude would git it, come back up, n' then they would be tha ones surprised. Yo ass could be stung yo, but you could also stin back yo. Dude believed dat sincerely. Two minutes from now tha nest would be just so much chewed paper n' Danny could have it up in his bangin room if da thug wanted to-Jack had had one up in his bangin room when da thug was just a kid, it had always smelled faintly of woodsmoke n' gasoline yo. Dude could have it right by tha head of his bed. Well shiiiit, it wouldn't hurt his muthafuckin ass.

"I'm gettin better."

Da sound of his own voice, Kool & Tha Gang up in tha silent afternoon, reassured his ass even though dat schmoooove muthafucka hadn't meant ta drop a rhyme aloud. Dude was gettin mo' betta n' shit. Dat shiznit was possible ta graduate from passive ta active, ta take tha thang dat had once driven you nearly ta madnizz as a neutral prize of no mo' than occasionizzle academic interest fo' realz. And if there was a place where tha thang could be done, dis was surely dat shit.

Dude went down tha ladder ta git tha bug bomb. They would pay. They would pay fo' stingin his muthafuckin ass.

Chapta 15. Down up in tha Front Yard
Jack had found a big-ass white-painted wicker chair up in tha back of tha shiznit shed two weeks ago, n' had dragged it round ta tha porch over Wendy's objections dat dat shiznit was straight-up tha ugliest thang dat freaky freaky biatch had eva peeped up in her whole game yo. Dude was chillin up in it now, amusin his dirty ass wit a cold-ass lil copy of E. L. Doctorow's Yo, wuz crackalackin', biatch? Yo ass is smokin Hard Times, when his hoe n' lil hustla rattled up tha driveway up in tha hotel truck.

Wendy parked it up in tha turn-around, raced tha engine sportily, n' then turned it off. Da truck's single taillight died. Da engine rumbled grumpily wit post-ignizzle n' finally stopped. Jack gots outta his chair n' ambled down ta hook up dem wild-ass muthafuckas.

"Yea muthafucka, Dad!" Danny called, n' raced up tha hill yo. Dude had a funky-ass box up in one hand. "Look what tha fuck Mommy looted me!"

Jack picked his fuckin lil hustla up, swung his ass round twice, n' busted his ass heartily on tha grill.

"Jack Torrance, tha Eugene O'Neill of his wild lil' freakadelic generation, tha Gangsta Snakespeare!" Wendy holla'd, smiling. "Fancy meetin you here, so far up in tha mountains."

"Da common ruck became too much fo' me, dear lady," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, n' slipped his thugged-out arms round her n' shit. They kissed. "How tha fuck was yo' trip?"

"Straight-up good. I be fly as a gangbangin' falcon, soarin all up in tha sky dawwwwg! Danny bitches dat I keep jerkin his ass but I didn't stall tha truck once and... oh, Jack, you finished dat shiznit son!"

Bitch was lookin all up in tha roof, n' Danny followed her gaze fo' realz. A faint frown touched his wild lil' grill as he looked all up in tha wide swatch of fresh shinglez atop tha Overlook's westside wing, a lighta chronic than tha rest of tha roof. Then he looked down all up in tha box up in his hand n' his wild lil' grill cleared again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. At night tha pictures Tony had flossed his ass came back ta haunt up in all they original gangsta claritizzle yo, but up in sunny daylight they was easier ta disregard.

"Look, Daddy, look!"

Jack took tha box from his son. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Dat shiznit was a model car, one of tha Big Daddy Roth caricatures dat Danny shitty expressed a admiration fo' up in tha past. This one was tha Violent Violet Volkswagen, n' tha picture on tha box flossed a big-ass purple VW` wit long '59 Cadillac Coupe de Ville taillights burnin up a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirt track. Da VW had a sunroof, n' pokin up all up in it, clawed handz on tha wheel down below, was a gigantic warty monsta wit poppin bloodshot eyes, a maniacal grin, n' a gigantic Gangsta racin cap turned round backward.

Wendy was smilin at him, n' Jack winked at her muthafuckin ass.

"That's what tha fuck I wanna bust a nut on bout you, doc," Jack holla'd, handin tha box back. "Yo crazy-ass taste runs ta tha on tha fuckin' down-low, tha sober, tha introspective. Yo ass is definitely tha lil pimp of mah loins."

"Mommy holla'd you'd help me put it together as soon as I could read all of tha straight-up original gangsta Dick n' Jane."

"That ought ta be by tha end of tha week," Jack holla'd. "What else have you gots up in dat fine-lookin truck, ma'am?"

"Uh-uh." Biatch grabbed his thugged-out arm n' pulled his ass back. "No peeking. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Some of dat shiznit is fo' you, biatch. Danny n' I'ma take it in. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Yo ass can git tha milk. It's on tha floor of tha cab."

"That's all I be ta you," Jack cried, clappin a hand ta his wild lil' forehead. "Just a thugged-out dray horse, a cold-ass lil common beast of tha field. Dray here, dray there, dray all over dis biiiatch."

"Just dray dat gin n juice right tha fuck into tha kitchen, mister."

"It's too much!" his schmoooove ass cried, n' threw his dirty ass on tha ground while Danny stood over his ass n' giggled.

"Git up, you ox," Wendy holla'd, n' prodded his ass wit tha toe of her sneaker.

"See?" da perved-out muthafucka holla'd ta Danny. "Bitch called mah crazy ass a ox. You're a witness."

"Witness, witness!" Danny concurred gleefully, n' broadjumped his thugged-out lil' prone father.

Jack sat up. "That remindz me, chumly. I've gots suttin' fo' you, biatch. like a muthafucka. On tha porch by mah ashtray."

"What tha fuck iz it?"

"Forgot. Go n' see."

Jack gots up n' tha two of dem stood together, watchin Danny charge up tha lawn n' then take tha steps ta tha porch two by two yo. Dude put a arm round Wendy's waist.

"Yo ass happy, babe?"

Bitch looked up at his ass solemnly. "This is tha happiest I've been since we was married."

"Is dat tha real deal?"

"God's honest."

Dude squeezed her tightly. "I gots a straight-up boner fo' you, biatch."

Bitch squeezed his ass back, touched. Those had never been skanky lyrics wit Jizzy Torrance; dat thugged-out biiiatch could count tha number of times dat schmoooove muthafucka had holla'd dem ta her, both before n' afta marriage, on both her hands.

"I gots a straight-up boner fo' you like a muthafucka."

"Mommy dawwwwg! Mommyl" Danny was on tha porch now, shrill n' excited. This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. "Come n' peep biaaatch! Fuck dis shiznit son! It's neat!"

"What tha fuck iz it?" Wendy axed his ass as they strutted up from tha parkin lot, hand up in hand.

"Forgot," Jack holla'd.

"Oh, you'll git yours," her big-ass booty holla'd, n' elbowed his muthafuckin ass. "See if you don't."

"I was hopin I'd git it tonight," he remarked, n' she laughed. A moment lata he asked, "Is Danny happy, do you think?"

"Yo ass ought ta know. You're tha one whoz ass has a long-ass rap wit his ass every last muthafuckin night before bed."

"That's probably bout what tha fuck da thug wants ta be when he grows up or if Gangsta Claus is straight-up real. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack. That's gettin ta be a funky-ass big-ass thang wit his muthafuckin ass. I be thinkin his oldschool dawg Scott let some pennies drop on dat one. Fuck dat shit, dat schmoooove muthafucka hasn't holla'd much of anythang bout tha Overlook ta mah dirty ass."

"Me either," her big-ass booty holla'd. They was climbin tha porch steps now, nahmeean, biatch? "But he's straight-up on tha down-low a shitload of tha time fo' realz. And I be thinkin he's lost weight, Jack, I straight-up do."

"He's just gettin tall."

Danny's back was ta dem wild-ass muthafuckas yo. Dude was examinin suttin' on tha table by Jack's chair yo, but Wendy couldn't peep what tha fuck it was.

"He's not smokin as well, either n' shiznit yo. Dude used ta be tha original gangsta steam shovel. Remember last year?"

"They taper off," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd vaguely. "I be thinkin I read dat up in Spock yo. He'll be rockin two forks again n' again n' again by tha time he's seven."

They had stopped on tha top step.

"He's pushin awfully hard on dem readers, too," her big-ass booty holla'd. "I know da thug wants ta learn how, ta please us... ta please you," she added reluctantly.

"To please his dirty ass most of all," Jack holla'd. "I haven't been pushin his ass on dat at all. In fact, I do wish da thug wouldn't go like so hard."

"Would you be thinkin I was foolish if I made a appointment fo' his ass ta git a physical, biatch? There's a G. P. up in Sidewinder, a lil' playa from what tha fuck tha checker up in tha market holla'd-"

"You're a lil straight-up trippin bout tha snow coming, aren't yo slick ass?"

Bitch shrugged. "I suppose. If you be thinkin it's foolish-"

"I don't. In fact, you can make appointments fo' all three of us. We'll git our clean billz of game n' then we can chill easy as fuck at night."

"I'll make tha appointments dis afternoon," her big-ass booty holla'd.

"Mom! Look, Mommy!"

Dude came hustlin ta her wit a big-ass gray thang up in his hands, n' fo' one comic-wack moment Wendy thought dat shiznit was a funky-ass dome. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch saw what tha fuck it straight-up was n' recoiled instinctively.

Jack put a arm round her n' shit. "It's all right. Da tenants whoz ass didn't fly away done been shaken out. I used tha bug bomb."

Bitch looked all up in tha big-ass wasps' nest her lil hustla was holdin but would not bust a nut on dat shit. "Is you shizzle it's safe?"

"Positive. I had one up in mah room when I was a kid. My fuckin daddy gave it ta mah dirty ass. Want ta put it up in yo' room, Danny?"

"Yeah! Right now!"

Dude turned round n' raced all up in tha double doors. They could hear his crazy-ass muffled, hustlin feet on tha main stairs.

"There was wasps up there," her big-ass booty holla'd. "Did yo dirty ass git stung?"

"Where's mah purple heart?" he asked, n' displayed his wild lil' finger n' shit. Da swellin had already begun ta go down yo, but she ooohed over it satisfyingly n' gave it a small, gentle kiss.

"Did yo dirty ass pull tha stinger out?"

"Wasps don't leave dem in. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. That's bees. They have barbed stingers. Wasp stingers is smooth. That's what tha fuck make dem so dangerous. They can stin again n' again n' again n' again."

"Jack, is you shizzle that's safe fo' his ass ta have?"

"I followed tha directions on tha bomb. Da shiznit is guaranteed ta bust a cap up in every last muthafuckin single bug up in two hours' time n' then dissipate wit no residue."

"I don't give a fuck bout them," her big-ass booty holla'd.

"What... wasps?"

"Anythang dat stings," her big-ass booty holla'd. Her handz went ta her elbows n' cupped them, her arms crossed over her breasts.

"I do too," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, n' hugged her muthafuckin ass.

Chapta 16. Lil' Boy, Danny
Down tha hall, up in tha bedroom, Wendy could hear tha typewrita Jack had carried up from downstairs burst tha fuck into game fo' thirty seconds, fall silent fo' a minute or two, n' then rattle briefly again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Dat shiznit was like listenin ta machinegun fire from a isolated pillbox. Da sound was noize ta her ears; Jack had not been freestylin so steadily since tha second year of they marriage, when da thug freestyled tha rap dat Esquire had purchased. Dude holla'd tha pimpin' muthafucka thought tha play would be done by tha end of tha year, fo' betta or worse, n' da thug would be movin on ta suttin' freshly smoked up yo. Dude holla'd da ruffneck didn't care if Da Little School stirred any excitement when Phyllis flossed it around, didn't care if it sank without a trace, n' Wendy believed that, like a muthafucka. Da actual act of his wild lil' freestylin made her immensely hopeful, not cuz she expected pimped out thangs from tha play but cuz her homeboy seemed ta be slowly closin a big-ass door on a roomful of monstas yo. Dude had had his shoulder ta dat door fo' a long-ass time now yo, but at last dat shiznit was swingin shut.

Every key typed closed it a lil more.

"Look, Dick, look."

Danny was hunched over tha straight-up original gangsta of tha five battered primers Jack had dug up by cullin mercilessly all up in Boulder's myriad secondhand bookshops. They would take Danny right up ta tha second-grade readin level, a program dat freaky freaky biatch had holla'd at Jack dat dunkadelic hoe thought was much too ambitious. Their lil hustla was intelligent, they knew dat yo, but it would be a gangbangin' fuck up ta push his ass too far too fast. Jack had agreed. There would be no pushin involved. But if tha kid caught on fast, they would be prepared. And now dat biiiiatch wondered if Jack hadn't been right bout that, like a muthafucka.

Danny, prepared by four muthafuckin yearz of "Sesame Street" n' three muthafuckin yearz of "Electric Company," seemed ta be catchin on wit almost freaky speed. Well shiiiit, it bothered her n' shiznit yo. Dude hunched over tha innocuous lil books, his crystal radio n' balsa glider on tha shelf above him, as though his wild lil' freakadelic game depended on peepin' ta read. His lil' small-ass grill was mo' tense n' pala than she was horny bout up in tha close n' cozy glow of tha goosenecked lamp they had put up in his bangin room yo. Dude was takin it straight-up seriously, both tha readin n' tha workbook pages his wild lil' daddy made up fo' his ass every last muthafuckin afternoon. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Picture of a apple n' a peach. Da word apple freestyled beneath up in Jack's large, neatly made printing. Circle tha right picture, tha one dat went wit tha word. And they lil hustla would stare from tha word ta tha pictures, his fuckin lips moving, soundin out, straight-up sweatin it out, And wit his fuckin lil' double-sized red pencil curled tha fuck into his thugged-out lil' pudgy right fist, his schmoooove ass could now write bout three dozen lyrics on his own.

His finger traced slowly under tha lyrics up in tha reader n' shiznit fo' realz. Above dem was a picture Wendy half-remembered from her own grammar school days, nineteen muthafuckin years before fo' realz. A bustin up pimp wit brown curly afro fo' realz. A hoe up in a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass short dress, her afro up in blond ringlets one hand holdin a jump rope fo' realz. A prancin dawg hustlin afta a big-ass red rubber bizzle. Kick dat shit! Da first-grade trinity. Dick, Jane, n' Jip.

"See Jip run," Danny read slowly. "Run, Jip, run. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Run, run, run." Dude paused, droppin his wild lil' finger down a line. "See the..." Dude bent closer, his nozzle almost touchin tha page now, nahmeean, biatch? "See the..."

"Not so close, doc," Wendy holla'd on tha fuckin' down-lowly. "You'll hurt yo' eyes. It's-"

"Don't tell me!" da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, chillin up wit a jerk yo. His voice was alarmed. "Don't tell me, Mommy, I can git dat shiznit son!"

"All right, honey," her big-ass booty holla'd. "But it's not a funky-ass big-ass thang. Straight-Up it's not."

Unheeding, Danny bent forward again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. On his wild lil' grill was a expression dat might be mo' commonly peeped hoverin over a graduate record exam up in a cold-ass lil college toilet somewhere, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch was horny bout it less n' less.

"See the... buh fo' realz. Aw. El. El. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. See tha buhaw-el-el, biatch? See tha buhawl. Ball!" Suddenly triumphant. Fierce. Da fiercenizz up in his voice scared her n' shit. "See tha ball!"

"That's right," her big-ass booty holla'd. "Honey, I be thinkin that's enough fo' tonight."

"A couple mo' pages, Mommy, biatch? Please?"

"Fuck dat shit, doc." Biatch closed tha red-bound book firmly. "It's bedtime."

"Please?"

"Don't tease me bout it, Danny. Mommy's tired."

"Okay." But he looked longingly all up in tha primer.

"Go lick yo' daddy n' then wash up. Don't forget ta brush."

"Yeah."

Dude slouched out, a lil' small-ass pimp up in pajama bottoms wit feet n' a big-ass flannel top wit a gangbangin' footbizzle on tha front n' NEW ENGLAND PATRIOTS freestyled on tha back.

Jack's typewrita stopped, n' dat freaky freaky biatch heard Danny's hearty smack. "Night, Daddy."

"Goodnight, doc yo. How'd you do?"

"Okay, I guess. Mommy made me stop."

"Mommy was right. It's past eight-thirty. Goin ta tha bathroom?"

"Yeah."

"Good. I be fly as a gangbangin' falcon, soarin all up in tha sky dawwwwg! There's potatoes growin outta yo' ears fo' realz. And onions n' carrots n' chives and-"

Danny's giggle, fading, then cut off by tha firm click of tha bathroom door yo. Dude was private bout his bathroom functions, while both she n' Jack was pretty much catch-as-catch-can. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. Another sign-and they was multiplyin all tha time- dat there was another human bein up in tha place, not just a cold-ass lil carbon copy of one of dem or a cold-ass lil combination of both. Well shiiiit, it made her a lil sad. Somedizzle her lil pimp would be a stranger ta her, n' dat biiiiatch would be strange ta his muthafuckin ass... but not as strange as her own mutha had become ta her n' shit. Please don't let it be dat way, Dogg. Let his ass grow up n' still ludd his crazy-ass mother.

Jack's typewrita fuckin started its irregular bursts again.

Still chillin up in tha chair beside Danny's readin table, she let her eyes wander round her son's room. Da glider's win had been neatly mended. His desk was piled high wit picture books, colorin books, oldschool Spidernizzle comic books wit tha covers half torn off, Crayolas, n' a untidy pile of Lincoln Logs. Da VW model was neatly placed above these lesser thangs, its shrink-wrap still undisturbed. Dude n' his wild lil' daddy would be puttin it together tomorrow night or tha night afta if Danny went on at dis rate, n' never mind tha end of tha week yo. His picturez of Pooh n' Eyore n' Christopher Robin was tacked neatly ta tha wall, soon enough ta be replaced wit pin-ups n' photographz of dopesmokin rock thugs, her big-ass booty supposed. Innocence ta experience yo. Human nature, baby. Grab it n' growl. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Still it made her sad. Next year da thug would be up in school n' dat biiiiatch would lose at least half of him, maybe more, ta his wild lil' playas. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch n' Jack had tried ta have another one fo' a while when thangs had seemed ta be goin well at Stovington yo, but dat biiiiatch was on tha chronic again n' again n' again now, nahmeean, biatch? Things was too uncertain. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Dogg knew where they would be up in nine months.

Her eyes fell tha fuck on tha wasps' nest.

It held tha illest high place up in Danny's room, restin on a big-ass plastic plate on tha table by his bed. Biatch didn't like it, even if dat shiznit was empty. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch wondered vaguely if it might have germs, thought ta ask Jack, then decided da thug would laugh at her n' shit. But dat biiiiatch would ask tha doctor tomorrow, if dat thugged-out biiiatch could catch his ass wit Jack outta tha room. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch didn't like tha scam of dat thang, constructed from tha chewings n' saliva of all kindsa muthafuckin alien creatures, lyin within a gangbangin' foot of her chillin son's head.

Da wata up in tha bathroom was still hustlin, n' she gots up n' went tha fuck into tha big-ass bedroom ta make shizzle every last muthafuckin thang was all gravy. Jack didn't look up; da thug was lost up in tha ghetto da thug was making, starin all up in tha typewriter, a gangbangin' filta blunt clamped up in his cold-ass teeth.

Bitch knocked lightly on tha closed bathroom room. "Yo ass aiiight, doc, biatch? Yo ass awake?"

No answer.

"Danny?"

No answer n' shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch tried tha door. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Dat shiznit was locked.

"Danny?" Biatch was worried now, nahmeean, biatch? Da lack of any sound beneath tha steadily hustlin wata made her uneasy. "Danny, biatch? Open tha door, honey."

No answer.

"Danny!"

"Jizzy Christ, Wendy, I can't be thinkin if you're goin ta pound on tha door all night."

"Danny's locked his dirty ass up in tha bathroom n' da ruffneck don't answer me!"

Jack came round tha desk, lookin put up yo. Dude knocked on tha door once, hard. "Open up, Danny. No games."

No answer.

Jack knocked harder n' shit. "Quit fooling, doc. Bedtime's bedtime. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Spankin if you don't open up."

He's losin his cold-ass temper, dat dunkadelic hoe thought, n' was mo' afraid. Dude had not touched Danny up in anger since dat evenin two muthafuckin years ago yo, but at dis moment da perved-out muthafucka sounded mad salty enough ta do dat shit.

"Danny, honey-" da hoe fuckin started.

No answer n' shit. Only hustlin water.

"Danny, if you make me break dis lock I can guarantee you you'll spend tha night chillin on yo' belly," Jack warned.

Nothing.

"Break it," her big-ass booty holla'd, n' suddenly dat shiznit was hard ta talk. "Quick."

Dude raised one foot n' brought it down hard against tha door ta tha right of tha knob. Da lock was a skanky thang; it gave immediately n' tha door shuddered open, bangin tha tiled bathroom wall n' reboundin halfway.

"Danny!" her big-ass booty screamed.

Da wata was hustlin full force up in tha basin. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Beside it, a tube of Crest wit tha cap off. Danny was chillin on tha rim of tha bathtub across tha room, his cold-ass toothbrush clasped limply up in his fuckin left hand, a thin foam of toothpaste round his crazy-ass grill yo. Dude was staring, trancelike, tha fuck into tha mirror on tha front of tha medicine cabinet above tha washbasin. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da expression on his wild lil' grill was one of sticky-icky-ickyged horror, n' her first thought was dat da thug was havin some sort of epileptic seizure, dat he might have swallowed his cold-ass tongue.

"Danny!"

Danny didn't answer n' shit. Guttural soundz came from his cold-ass throat.

Then dat biiiiatch was pushed aside so hard dat dat thugged-out biiiatch crashed tha fuck into tha towel rack, n' Jack was kneelin up in front of tha boy.

"Danny," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. "Danny, Danny!" Dude snapped his wild lil' fingers up in front of Danny's blank eyes.

"Ah-sure," Danny holla'd. "Tournament play. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Stroke. Nurrrrr..."

"Danny-"

"Roque!" Danny holla'd, his voice suddenly deep, almost manlike. "Roque. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Stroke. Da roque mallet... has two sides. Gaaaaaa-"

"Oh Jack mah Dogg what's wack wit him?"

Jack grabbed tha boy's elbows n' shook his ass hard. Danny's head rolled limply backward n' then snapped forward like a funky-ass balloon on a stick.

"Roque. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Stroke. Redrum."

Jack shook his ass again, n' Danny's eyes suddenly cleared. His toothbrush fell tha fuck outta his hand n' onto tha tiled floor wit a lil' small-ass click.

"What?" he asked, lookin around. Dude saw his wild lil' daddy kneelin before him, Wendy standin by tha wall. "What?" Danny axed again, wit risin alarm. "W-W-WuhWhat's wr-r-r-"

"Don't stutter!" Jack suddenly screamed tha fuck into his wild lil' face. Danny cried up in shock, his body goin tense, tryin ta draw away from his wild lil' father, n' then his schmoooove ass collapsed tha fuck into tears. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Stricken, Jack pulled his ass close. "Oh, honey, I'm sorry bout dat bullshit. I'm sorry, doc. Please. Don't cry like a muthafucka. I'm sorry bout dat bullshit. Everything's all gravy."

Da wata ran ceaselessly up in tha basin, n' Wendy felt dat dat freaky freaky biatch had suddenly stepped tha fuck into some grindin nightmare where time ran backward, backward ta tha time when her fadeden homeboy had fucked up her son's arm n' had then mewled over his ass up in almost tha exact same lyrics.

(Oh honey. I'm sorry bout dat bullshit. I'm sorry, doc. Please. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So sorry bout dat bullshit.)

Bitch ran ta dem both, pried Danny outta Jack's arms somehow (she saw tha look of mad salty reproach on his wild lil' grill but filed it away fo' lata consideration), n' lifted his ass up. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch strutted his ass back tha fuck into tha lil' small-ass bedroom, Danny's arms clasped round her neck, Jack trailin dem wild-ass muthafuckas.

Bitch sat down on Danny's bed n' rocked his ass back n' forth, soothang his ass wit nonsensical lyrics repeated over n' over n' shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch looked up at Jack n' there was only worry up in his wild lil' fuckin eyes now yo. Dude raised dissin eyebrows at her n' shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch shook her head faintly.

"Danny," her big-ass booty holla'd. "Danny, Danny, Danny. 'S aiiight, doc. 'S fine."

At last Danny was on tha fuckin' down-low, only faintly tremblin up in her arms. Boy it's gettin hot, yes indeed it is. Yet dat shiznit was Jack da perved-out muthafucka was rappin ta first, Jack whoz ass was now chillin beside dem on tha bed, n' she felt tha oldschool faint pang

(It's his ass first n' it's always been his ass first)

of jealousy. Jack had shouted at him, dat freaky freaky biatch had comforted him, yet dat shiznit was ta his wild lil' daddy dat Danny holla'd,

"I'm sorry if I was bad."

"Nothang ta be sorry for, doc." Jack ruffled his hair. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. "What tha hell happened up in there?"

Danny shook his head slowly, dazedly. "I... I don't know. Why did you tell me ta stop stuttering, Daddy, biatch? I don't stutter."

"Of course not," Jack holla'd heartily yo, but Wendy felt a cold-ass lil cold finger bust a nut on her ass. Jack suddenly looked scared, as if he'd peeped suttin' dat might just done been a pimp.

"Somethang bout tha timer..." Danny muttered.

"What?" Jack was leanin forward, n' Danny flinched up in her arms.

"Jack, you're scarin him!" her big-ass booty holla'd, n' her voice was high, accusatory. Well shiiiit, it suddenly came ta her dat they was all trippin like a muthafucka. But of what?

"I don't know, I don't know," Danny was sayin ta his wild lil' daddy n' shit. "What... what tha fuck did I say, Daddy?"

"Nothing," Jack muttered. Dude took his handkerchizzle from his back pocket n' wiped his crazy-ass grill wit dat shit. Wendy had a moment of dat sickenin time-is-runningbackward feelin again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Dat shiznit was a gesture she remembered well from his fuckin lil' drankin days.

"Why did you lock tha door, Danny?" she axed gently. "Why did you do that?"

"Tony," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. "Tony holla'd at mah crazy ass to."

They exchanged a glizzle over tha top of his head.

"Did Tony say why, son?" Jack axed on tha fuckin' down-lowly.

"I was brushin mah teeth n' I was thankin bout mah reading," Danny holla'd. "Thinkin real bard. And... n' I saw Tony way down up in tha mirror yo. Dude holla'd dat schmoooove muthafucka had ta show me again."

"Yo ass mean da thug was behind yo slick ass?" Wendy asked.

"Fuck dat shit, da thug was up in tha mirror." Danny was straight-up emphatic on dis point. "Way down deep fo' realz. And then I went all up in tha mirror. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Da next thang I remember Daddy was bobbin me n' I thought I was bein shitty again."

Jack winced as if struck.

"Fuck dat shit, doc," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd on tha fuckin' down-lowly.

"Tony holla'd at you ta lock tha door?" Wendy asked, brushin his hair.

"Yes yes y'all."

"And what tha fuck did da thug wanna show yo slick ass?"

Danny tensed up in her arms; dat shiznit was as if tha musclez up in his body had turned tha fuck into suttin' like piano wire. "I don't remember," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, distraught. "I don't remember n' shit. Don't ask mah dirty ass. I... I don't remember nothing!"

"Shh," Wendy holla'd, alarmed. Biatch fuckin started ta rock his ass again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. "It's all right if you don't remember, bon. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Sheezy it is."

At last Danny fuckin started ta chillax again.

"Do you want me ta stay a lil while, biatch? Read you a story?"

"No. Just tha night light." Dude looked shyly at his wild lil' daddy n' shit. "Would you stay, Daddy, biatch? For a minute?"

"Sure, doc."

Wendy sighed. "I'll be up in tha livin room, Jack."

"Okay."

Bitch gots up n' peeped it as Danny slid under tha covers yo. Dude seemed straight-up small.

"Is you shizzle you're aiiight, Danny?"

"I'm aiiight. Just plug up in Snoopy, Mom."

"Sure."

Bitch plugged up in tha night light, which flossed Snoopy lyin fast asleep on top of his fuckin lil' doghouse yo. Dude had never wanted a night light until they moved tha fuck into tha Overlook, n' then dat schmoooove muthafucka had specifically axed one. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch turned off tha lamp n' tha overhead n' looked back at them, tha lil' small-ass white circle of Danny's face, n' Jack's above dat shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch hesitated a moment

(and then I went all up in tha mirror)

and then left dem on tha fuckin' down-lowly.

"Yo ass chilly?" Jack asked, brushin Danny's afro off his wild lil' forehead.

"Yeah."

"Want a thugged-out drank of water?"

"No..."

There was silence fo' five minutes. Danny was still beneath his hand. Thinkin tha pimp had dropped off, da thug was bout ta git up n' leave on tha fuckin' down-lowly when Danny holla'd from tha brink of chill:

"Roque.,'

Jack turned back, all zero all up in tha bone.

"Danny-?"

"You'd never hurt Mommy, would you, Daddy?"

"No."

"Or me son?"

"No."

Silence again, spinnin out.

"Daddy?"

"What?"

"Tony came n' holla'd at mah crazy ass bout roque."

"Did he, doc, biatch? What did da perved-out muthafucka say?"

"I don't remember much. Except da perved-out muthafucka holla'd dat shiznit was up in innings. Like basebizzle. Kick dat shit! Isn't dat funky?"

"Yes yes y'all." Jack's ass was thuddin dully up in his chest yo. How tha fuck could tha pimp possibly know a thang like that, biatch? Roque was played by innings, not like basebizzle but like cricket.

"Daddy...?" Dude was almost asleep now, nahmeean?

"What?"

"What's redrum?"

"Red drum, biatch? Soundz like suttin' a Indian might take on tha warpath."

Silence.

"Yo, doc?"

But Danny was alseep, breathang up in long, slow strokes. Jack sat lookin down at his ass fo' a moment, n' a rush of ludd pushed all up in his ass like tidal gin n juice n' shit. Why had he yelled all up in tha pimp like that, biatch? Dat shiznit was perfectly aiiight fo' his ass ta stutta a lil yo. Dude had been comin outta a thugged-out daze or some weird kind of trance, n' stutterin was perfectly aiiight under dem circumstances. Perfectly fo' realz. And dat schmoooove muthafucka hadn't holla'd timer at all. Well shiiiit, it had been suttin' else, nonsense, gibberish.

How tha fuck had he known roque was played up in innings, biatch? Had one of mah thugs holla'd at him, biatch? Ullman, biatch? Hallorann?

Dude looked down at his hands. They was made tha fuck into tight, clenched fistz of tension

(god how tha fuck i need a thugged-out drink)

and tha nails was diggin tha fuck into his thugged-out lil' palms like tiny brands. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Slowly he forced dem ta open.

"I gots a straight-up boner fo' you, Danny," da thug whispered. "Dogg knows I do."

Dude left tha room yo. Dude had lost his cold-ass temper again, only a lil yo, but enough ta make his ass feel sick n' afraid. A drank would blunt dat feeling, oh yes. Well shiiiit, it would blunt that

(Somethang bout tha timer)

and every last muthafuckin thang else. There was no fuck up bout dem lyrics at all. None. Each had come up clear as a funky-ass bell yo. Dude paused up in tha hallway, lookin back, n' automatically wiped his fuckin lips wit his handkerchizzle.



Their shapes was only dark silhouettes up in tha glow of tha night light. Wendy, bustin only panties, went ta his bed n' tucked his ass up in again; dat schmoooove muthafucka had kicked tha covers back. Jack stood up in tha doorway, watchin as she put her inner wrist against his wild lil' forehead.

"Is he feverish?"

"No." Biatch busted his cheek.

"Thank Dogg you made dat appointment," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd as dat thugged-out biiiatch came back ta tha doorway. "Yo ass be thinkin dat muthafucka knows his stuff?"

"Da checker holla'd da thug was straight-up good. I be fly as a gangbangin' falcon, soarin all up in tha sky dawwwwg! That's all I know."

"If there's suttin' wrong, I'm goin ta bust you n' his ass ta yo' mother's, Wendy."

"No."

"I know," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, puttin a arm round her, "how you feel."

"Yo ass don't know how tha fuck I feel at all bout her muthafuckin ass."

"Wendy, there's no place else I can bust you, biatch. Yo ass know that."

"If you came-"

"Without dis thang we're done," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd simply. "Yo ass know that."

Her silhouette nodded slowly. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch knew dat shit.

"When I had dat rap battle wit Ullman, I thought da thug was just blowin off his bazoo. Now I'm not so sure. Maybe I straight-up shouldn't have tried dis wit you two along. Forty milez from nowhere."

"I gots a straight-up boner fo' you," her big-ass booty holla'd. "And Danny loves you even more, if that's possible yo. Dude would done been heartbroken, Jack yo. Dude will be, if you bust our asses away."

"Don't make it sound dat way."

"If tha doctor say there's suttin' wrong, I'll look fo' a thang up in Sidewinder," her big-ass booty holla'd. "If I can't git one up in Sidewinder, Danny n' I'ma git all up in Boulder n' shit. I can't git all up in mah mother, Jack. Not on dem terms. Boy it's gettin hot, yes indeed it is. Don't ask mah dirty ass. I... I just can't."

"I guess I know dis shit. Cheer up. Maybe it's nothing."

"Maybe."

"Da appointment's at two?"

"Yes yes y'all."

"Let's leave tha bedroom door open, Wendy."

"I want to. But I be thinkin he'll chill all up in now, nahmeean?"

But da ruffneck didn't.



Boom... boom... boomboomBOOMBOOM-

Dude fled tha heavy, crashing, echoin soundz all up in twisting, mazelike corridors, his bare feet whisperin over a thugged-out deep-pile jungle of blue n' black. Each time dat schmoooove muthafucka heard tha roque mallet smash tha fuck into tha wall somewhere behind his ass da thug wanted ta scream aloud. But he mustn't yo. Dude mustn't fo' realz. A scream would give his ass away n' then

(then REDRUM)

(Come up here n' take yo' medicine, you fuckin crybaby!)

Oh n' his schmoooove ass could hear tha balla of dat voice coming, comin fo' him, chargin up tha hall like a tiger up in a alien blue-black jungle fo' realz. A man-eater.

(Come up here, you lil lil hustla of a funky-ass biiiatch!)

If his schmoooove ass could git ta tha stairs goin down, if his schmoooove ass could git off dis third floor, he might be all right. Even tha elevator. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. If his schmoooove ass could remember what tha fuck had been forgotten. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. But dat shiznit was dark n' up in his cold-ass terror dat schmoooove muthafucka had lost his orientation. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude had turned down one corridor n' then another, his thugged-out ass leapin tha fuck into his crazy-ass grill like a hot' lump of ice, fearin dat each turn would brang his ass grill ta grill wit tha human tiger up in these halls.

Da boomin was right behind his ass now, tha wack hoarse shouting.

Da whistle tha head of tha mallet made cuttin all up in tha air

(roque... stroke... roque... stroke... REDRUM)

before it crashed tha fuck into tha wall. Da soft whisper of feet on tha jungle carpet. Panic squirtin up in his crazy-ass grill like bitta juice.

(Yo ass will remember what tha fuck was forgotten... but would he, biatch? What was it?)

Dude fled round another corner n' saw wit creeping, utta horror dat da thug was up in a cold-ass lil cul-de-sac. Locked doors frowned down at his ass from three sides. Da westside win yo. Dude was up in tha westside win n' outside his schmoooove ass could hear tha storm whoopin n' screaming, seemin ta choke on its own dark throat filled wit snow.

Dude backed up against tha wall, weepin wit terror now, his thugged-out ass racin like tha ass of a rabbit caught up in a snare. When his back was against tha light blue silk wallpaper wit tha embossed pattern of wavy lines, his hairy-ass legs gave way n' his schmoooove ass collapsed ta tha carpet, handz splayed on tha jungle of woven vines n' creepers, tha breath whistlin up in n' outta his cold-ass throat.

Louder n' shit. Louder.

There was a tiger up in tha hall, n' now tha tiger was just round tha corner, still bustin up like a biatch up in dat shrill n' petulant n' lunatic rage, tha roque mallet slamming, cuz dis tiger strutted on two hairy-ass legs n' it was-

Dude woke wit a sudden indrawn gasp, chillin bolt upright up in bed, eyes wide n' starin tha fuck into tha darkness, handz crossed up in front of his wild lil' face.

Somethang on one hand. Crawling.

Wasps. Three of dem wild-ass muthafuckas.

They stung his ass then, seemin ta needle all at once, n' dat was when all tha images broke apart n' fell tha fuck on his ass up in a thugged-out dark flood n' his thugged-out lil' punk-ass fuckin started ta shriek tha fuck into tha dark, tha wasps clingin ta his fuckin left hand, stingin again n' again n' again n' again.

Da lights went on n' Daddy was standin there up in his shorts, his wild lil' fuckin eyes glaring. Mommy behind him, chilly n' trippin like a muthafucka.

"Git dem o$ me!" Danny screamed.

"Oh mah God," Jack holla'd. Dude saw.

"Jack, what's wack wit him, biatch? What's wrong?"

Dude didn't answer her n' shiznit yo. Dude ran ta tha bed, scooped up Danny's pillow, n' slapped Danny's thrashin left hand wit it fo' realz. Again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. Again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Wendy saw lumbering, insectile forms rise tha fuck into tha air, droning.

"Git a magazine!" he yelled over his shoulder n' shit. "Bust a cap up in them!"

"Wasps?" her big-ass booty holla'd, n' fo' a moment dat biiiiatch was inside her muthafuckin ass, almost detached up in her realization. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Then her mind crosspatched, n' knowledge was connected ta emotion. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. "Wasps, oh Jizzy, Jack, you holla'd-"

"Shut tha fuck up n' bust a cap up in them!" he roared. "Will you do what tha fuck I say!"

One of dem had landed on Danny's readin desk. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch took a cold-ass lil colorin book off his worktable n' slammed it down on tha wasp. Well shiiiit, it left a viscous brown smear.

"There's another one on tha curtain," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, n' ran up past her wit Danny up in his thugged-out arms.

Dude took tha pimp tha fuck into they bedroom n' put his ass on Wendy's side of tha makeshift double. "Lie right there, Danny. Don't come back until I rap, biatch. Understand?"

His grill puffed n' streaked wit tears, Danny nodded.

"That's mah brave boy."

Jack ran back down tha hall ta tha stairs. Behind his ass dat schmoooove muthafucka heard tha colorin book slap twice, n' then his hoe screamed up in pain. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude didn't slow but went down tha stairs two by two tha fuck into tha darkened lobby yo. Dude went all up in Ullman's crib tha fuck into tha kitchen, slammin tha heavy part of his cold-ass thigh tha fuck into tha corner of Ullman's oak desk, barely feelin it yo. Dude slapped on tha kitchen overheadz n' crossed ta tha sink. Da washed dishes from supper was still heaped up in tha drainer, where Wendy had left dem ta drip-dry yo. Dude snatched tha big-ass Pyrex bowl off tha top fo' realz. A dish fell tha fuck ta tha floor n' blew up like a muthafucka. Ignorin it, tha pimpin' muthafucka turned n' ran back all up in tha crib n' up tha stairs.

Wendy was standin outside Danny's door, breathang hard. Her grill was tha color of table linen. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Her eyes was shiny n' flat; her afro hung damply against her neck. "I gots all of them," her big-ass booty holla'd dully, "but one stung mah dirty ass. Jack, you holla'd they was all dead as fuckin fried chicken." Biatch fuckin started ta cry like a muthafucka.

Dude slipped past her without answerin n' carried tha Pyrex bowl over ta tha nest by Danny's bed. Dat shiznit was still. Nothang there, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. On tha outside, anyway yo. Dude slammed tha bowl down over tha nest.

"There," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. "Come on."

They went back tha fuck into they bedroom.

"Where done did it git yo slick ass?" he axed her muthafuckin ass.

"My... on mah wrist."

"Let's see."

Bitch flossed it ta his muthafuckin ass. Just above tha bracelet of lines between wrist n' palm, there was a lil' small-ass circular hole. Da flesh round dat shiznit was puffin up.

"Is you allergic ta stings?" he asked. "Think hard hommie! If yo ass is, Danny might be. Da fuckin lil bastardz gots his ass five or six times."

"No," her big-ass booty holla'd, mo' calmly. "I... I just don't give a fuck bout them, that's all yo. Hate dem wild-ass muthafuckas."

Danny was chillin on tha foot of tha bed, holdin his fuckin left hand n' lookin at dem wild-ass muthafuckas yo. His eyes, circled wit tha white of shock, looked at Jack reproachfully.

"Daddy, you holla'd you capped dem all. My fuckin hand... it straight-up hurts."

"Let's peep it, doe... no, I'm not goin ta bust a nut on dat shit. That would make it hurt even mo' n' mo' n' mo'. Just hold it out."

Dude did n' Wendy moaned. "Oh Danny... oh, yo' skanky hand!"

Lata tha doctor would count eleven separate stings. Now all they saw was a thugged-out dottin of lil' small-ass holes, as if his thugged-out lil' palm n' fingers had been sprinkled wit grainz of red pepper n' shit. Da swellin was bad. His hand had begun ta be lookin like one of dem cartoon images where Bugs Bunny or Daffy Duck had just slammed his dirty ass wit a hammer.

"Wendy, go git dat spray shiznit up in tha bathroom," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd.

Bitch went afta it, n' da perved-out muthafucka sat down next ta Danny n' slipped a arm round his shoulders.

"Afta we spray yo' hand, I wanna take some Polaroidz of it, doc. Then you chill tha rest of tha night wit us, Tay?"

"Sure," Danny holla'd. "But why is you goin ta take pictures?"

"So maybe we can sue tha ass outta some people."

Wendy came back wit a spray tube up in tha shape of a cold-ass lil chemical fire extinguisher.

"This won't hurt, honey," her big-ass booty holla'd, takin off tha cap.

Danny held up his hand n' her big-ass booty sprayed both sides until it gleamed. Dude let up a long, shuddery sigh.

"Do it smart?" she asked.

"No. Feels better."

"Now these n' you can put dat on yo' toast. Crunch dem up." Biatch held up five orangeflavored baby aspirin. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Danny took dem n' popped dem tha fuck into his crazy-ass grill one by one.

"Isn't dat a shitload of aspirin?" Jack asked.

"It's a shitload of stings," her big-ass booty snapped at his ass angrily. "Yo ass go n' git rid of dat nest, Jizzy Torrance. Right now, nahmeean?"

"Just a minute."

Dude went ta tha dresser n' took his Polarizzle Square Shoota outta tha top drawer n' shiznit yo. Dude rummaged deeper n' found some flashcubes.

"Jack, what tha fuck is you bustin?" she asked, a lil hysterically.

"He's gonna take some picturez of mah hand," Danny holla'd gravely, "and then we're gonna sue tha ass outta some people. Right, Dad?"

"Right," Jack holla'd grimly yo. Dude had found tha flash attachment, n' he jabbed it onto tha camera. "Hold it out, son. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I figure bout five thousand dollars a sting."

"What is you poppin' off about?" Wendy nearly screamed.

"I'll rap what," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. "I followed tha directions on dat fuckin bug bomb. We're goin ta sue dem wild-ass muthafuckas. Da damn thang was defectizzle yo. Had ta have been. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. How tha fuck else can you explain this?"

"Oh," her big-ass booty holla'd up in a lil' small-ass voice.

Dude took four pictures, pullin up each covered print fo' Wendy ta time on tha lil' small-ass locket peep dat biiiiatch wore round her neck. Danny, fascinated wit tha scam dat his stung hand might be worth thousandz n' thousandz of dollars, fuckin started ta lose a shitload of his wild lil' fright n' take a actizzle interest. Da hand throbbed dully, n' dat schmoooove muthafucka had a lil' small-ass headache.

When Jack had put tha camera away n' spread tha prints up on top of tha dresser ta dry, Wendy holla'd: "Should we take his ass ta tha doctor tonight?"

"Not unless he's straight-up up in pain," Jack holla'd. "If a thug has a phat allergy ta wasp venom, it hits within thirty seconds."

"Hits, biatch? What do you-"

"A coma. Or convulsions."

"Oh. Oh mah Jizzy." Biatch cupped her handz over her elbows n' hugged her muthafuckin ass, lookin pale n' wan.

"How tha fuck do you feel, son, biatch? Think you could chill?"

Danny blinked at dem wild-ass muthafuckas. Da nightmare had faded ta a thugged-out dull, featureless background up in his crazy-ass mind yo, but da thug was still frightened.

"If I can chill wit you, biatch."

"Of course," Wendy holla'd. "Oh honey, I'm so sorry bout dat bullshit."

"It's all gravy, Mommy."

Bitch fuckin started ta cry again, n' Jack put his handz on her shoulders. "Wendy, I swear ta you dat I followed tha directions."

"Will you git rid of it up in tha morning, biatch? Please?"

"Of course I will."

Da three of dem gots up in bed together, n' Jack was bout ta snap off tha light over tha bed when he paused n' pushed tha covers back instead. "Want a picture of tha nest, like a muthafucka."

"Come right back."

"I will."

Dude went ta tha dresser, gots tha camera n' tha last flashcube, n' gave Danny a cold-ass lil closed thumb-and-forefinger circle. Danny smiled n' gave it back wit his wild lil' freakadelic phat hand.

Quite a kid tha pimpin' muthafucka thought as da thug strutted down ta Danny's room fo' realz. All of dat n' then some.

Da overhead was still on. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Jack crossed ta tha bunk setup, n' as he glanced all up in tha table beside it, his skin crawled tha fuck into goose flesh. Da short hairs on his neck prickled n' tried ta stand erect.

Dude could hardly peep tha nest all up in tha clear Pyrex bowl. Da inside of tha glass was crawlin wit wasps. Dat shiznit was hard ta tell how tha fuck many. Fifty at least. Maybe a hundred.

His ass thuddin slowly up in his chest, tha pimpin' muthafucka took his thugged-out lil' pictures n' then set tha camera down ta wait fo' dem ta pimp yo. Dude wiped his fuckin lips wit tha palm of his hand. One thought played over n' over up in his crazy-ass mind, echoin with

(Yo ass lost yo' temper n' shit. Yo ass lost yo' temper n' shit. Yo ass lost yo' temper.)

an almost superstitious dread. They had come back yo. Dude had capped tha wasps but they had come back.

In his crazy-ass mind dat schmoooove muthafucka heard his dirty ass beatboxin tha fuck into his wild lil' frightened, bustin up like a biatch son's face: Don't stutter/

Dude wiped his fuckin lips again.

Dude went ta Danny's worktable, rummaged up in its drawers, n' came up wit a funky-ass big-ass jigsaw puzzle wit a gangbangin' fiberboard backin yo. Dude took it over ta tha bedtable n' carefully slid tha bowl n' tha nest onto dat shit. Da wasps buzzed angrily inside they prison. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Then, puttin his hand firmly on top of tha bowl so it wouldn't slip, da thug went up tha fuck into tha hall.

"Comin ta bed, Jack?" Wendy asked.

"Comin ta bed, Daddy?"

"Have ta go downstairs fo' a minute," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, makin his voice light.

How tha fuck had it happened, biatch? How tha fuck up in God's name?

Da bomb shizzle hadn't been a thugged-out dud. Dude had peeped tha thick white smoke start ta puff outta it when dat schmoooove muthafucka had pulled tha rang fo' realz. And when dat schmoooove muthafucka had gone up two minutes later, dat schmoooove muthafucka had shaken a thugged-out drift of lil' small-ass dead bodies outta tha hole up in tha top.

Then how, biatch? Spontaneous regeneration?

That was crazy. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Seventeenth-century bullshit. Insects didn't regenerate fo' realz. And even if wasp eggs could mature full-grown insects up in twelve hours, dis wasn't tha season up in which tha biatch laid. That happened up in April or May. Fall was they dyin time.

A livin contradiction, tha wasps buzzed furiously under tha bowl.

Dude took dem downstairs n' all up in tha kitchen. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. In back there was a thugged-out door which gave on tha outside fo' realz. A cold night wind blew against his nearly naked body, n' his wild lil' feet went numb almost instantly against tha cold concrete of tha platform da thug was standin on, tha platform where gin n juice deliveries was made durin tha hotel's operatin season. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude put tha puzzle n' tha bowl down carefully, n' when da perved-out muthafucka stood up he looked all up in tha thermometa nailed outside tha door. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. FRESH UP WITH 7-up, tha thermometa holla'd, n' tha mercury stood at a even twenty-five degrees. Da cold would bust a cap up in dem by mornin yo. Dude went up in n' shut tha door firmly fo' realz. Afta a moment's thought he locked it, like a muthafucka.

Dude crossed tha kitchen again n' again n' again n' shut off tha lights yo. Dude stood up in tha darknizz fo' a moment, thinking, wantin a thugged-out drink. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Suddenly tha hotel seemed full of a thousand stealthy sounds: creakings n' groans n' tha sly sniff of tha wind under tha eaves where mo' wasps' nests might be hangin like deadly fruit.

They had come back.

And suddenly he found dat da ruffneck didn't like tha Overlook so well no mo', as if it wasn't wasps dat had stung his son, wasps dat had miraculously lived all up in tha bug bomb assault yo, but tha hotel itself.

His last thought before goin upstairs ta his hoe n' son

(from now on yo big-ass booty is ghon git freaky wit yo' temper n' shit. No Mattes What.)

was firm n' hard n' sure.

As da thug went down tha hall ta dem da thug wiped his fuckin lips wit tha back of his hand.

Chapta 17. Da Doctor's Office
Stripped ta his underpants, lyin on tha examination table, Danny Torrizzle looked straight-up lil fuckin yo. Dude was lookin up at Dr. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. ("Just call me Bizzle") Edmonds, whoz ass was wheelin a big-ass black machine up beside his muthafuckin ass. Danny rolled his wild lil' fuckin eyes ta git a funky-ass betta peep dat shit.

"Don't let it scare you, muthafucka," Bizzle Edmondz holla'd. "It's a electroencephalograph, n' it don't hurt."

"Electro-"

"We call it EEG fo' short. I'm goin ta hook a funky-ass bunch of wires ta yo' head- no, not stick dem in, only tape them-and tha pens up in dis part of tha gadget will record yo' dome waves."

"Like on `Da Six Mazillion Dollar Man'?"

"Bout tha same. Would you like ta be like Steve Austin when you grow up?"

"No way," Danny holla'd as tha nurse fuckin started ta tape tha wires ta a fuckin shitload of tiny shaved spots on his scalp. "My fuckin daddy say dat somedizzle he'll git a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass short circuit n' then he'll be up sh... he'll be up tha creek."

"I know dat creek well," Dr. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Edmondz holla'd amiably. "I've been up it all dem times mah dirty ass, sans paddle fo' realz. An EEG can tell our asses fuckin shitloadz of thangs, Danny."

"Like what?"

"Like fo' instizzle if you have epilepsy. That's a lil problem where-"

"Yeah, I know what tha fuck epilespy is."

"Really?"

"Sure. There was a kid up in mah nursery school back up in Vermont-I went ta nursery school when I was a lil kid-and dat schmoooove muthafucka had it yo. Dude wasn't supposed ta use tha flashboard."

"What was that, Dan?" Dude had turned on tha machine. Thin lines fuckin started ta trace they way across graph paper.

"It had all these lights, all different colors fo' realz. And when you turned it on, some flavas would flash but not all fo' realz. And you had ta count tha flavas n' if you pushed tha right button, you could turn it off. Brent couldn't use that."

"That's cuz bright flashin lights sometimes cause a epileptic seizure."

"Yo ass mean rockin tha flashboard might've made Brent pitch a gangbangin' fit?"

Edmondz n' tha nurse exchanged a funky-ass brief, amused glance. "Inelegantly but accurately put, Danny."

"What?"

"I holla'd you're right, except you should say `seizure' instead of `pitch a gangbangin' fit. ' That's not sick... aiiight, lie just as still as a mouse now, nahmeean?"

"Okay."

"Danny, when you have these... whatever they ares, do you eva recall seein bright flashin lights before?"

"No...,

"Funny noises, biatch? Ringing, biatch? Or chimes like a thugged-out doorbell?"

"Huh-uh."

"How tha fuck on some gangbangin' funky smell, maybe like oranges or sawdust, biatch? Or a smell like suttin' rotten?"

"Fuck dat shit, Sir."

"Sometimes do you feel like bustin up like a biatch before you pass out, biatch? Even though you don't feel sad?"

"No way."

"That's fine, then."

"Have I gots epilepsy, Dr. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Bizzle?"

"I don't be thinkin so, Danny. Just lie still fo' realz. Almost done."

Da machine hummed n' scratched fo' another five minutes n' then Dr. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Edmondz shut it off.

"All done, muthafucka," Edmondz holla'd briskly. "Let Sally git dem electrodes off you n' then come tha fuck into tha next room. I want ta git a lil rap wit you, biatch. Okay?"

"Sure."

"Sally, you go ahead n' give his ass a tine test before his schmoooove ass comes in."

"All right."

Edmondz ripped off tha long curl of paper tha machine had extruded n' went tha fuck into tha next room, lookin at dat shit.

"I'm goin ta prick yo' arm just a lil," tha nurse holla'd afta Danny had pulled up his thugged-out lil' pants, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. "It's ta make shizzle you aint gots TB."

"They gave me dat at mah school just last year," Danny holla'd without much hope.

"But dat was a long-ass time ago n' you're a funky-ass big-ass pimp now, right?"

"I guess so," Danny sighed, n' offered his thugged-out arm up fo' sacrifice.

When dat schmoooove muthafucka had his hoodie n' Nikes on, da thug went all up in tha slidin door n' tha fuck into Dr. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Edmonds's crib. Edmondz was chillin on tha edge of his fuckin lil' desk, swingin his hairy-ass legs thoughtfully.

"Yea muthafucka, Danny."

"Hi."

"How's dat hand now?" Dude pointed at Danny's left hand, which was lightly bandaged.

"Pretty good."

"Good. I be fly as a gangbangin' falcon, soarin all up in tha sky dawwwwg! I looked at yo' EEG n' it seems fine. But I'm goin ta bust it ta a gangbangin' playa of mine up in Denver whoz ass make his fuckin livin readin dem thangs. I just wanna make sure."

"Yes, Sir."

"Tell me bout Tony, Dan."

Danny shuffled his Nikes. "He's just a invisible playa," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. "I made his ass up. To keep me company."

Edmondz laughed n' put his handz on Danny's shoulders. "Now that's what tha fuck yo' Momma n' Dad say. But dis is just between us, muthafucka. I'm yo' doctor. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Tell me tha real deal n' I'll promise not ta tell dem unless you say I can."

Danny thought bout it yo. Dude looked at Edmondz n' then, wit a lil' small-ass effort of concentration, tha pimpin' muthafucka tried ta catch Edmonds's thoughts or at least tha color of his crazy-ass vibe. I be fly as a gangbangin' falcon, soarin all up in tha sky dawwwwg! And suddenly he gots a oddly comfortin image up in his head: file cabinets, they doors slidin shut one afta another, lockin wit a cold-ass lil click. Written on tha lil' small-ass tabs up in tha centa of each door was: A-C, SECRET; D-G, SECRET; n' so on. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. This made Danny feel a lil easier.

Cautiously da perved-out muthafucka holla'd: "I don't know whoz ass Tony is."

"Is he yo' age?"

"No yo. He's at least eleven. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I be thinkin he might be even olda n' shit. I've never peeped his ass right up close yo. Dude might be oldschool enough ta drive a cold-ass lil car."

"Yo ass just peep his ass at a gangbangin' finger-lickin' distance, huh?"

"Yes, Sir."

"And he always comes just before you pass out?"

"Well, I don't pass out. It's like I go wit his muthafuckin ass fo' realz. And da perved-out muthafucka shows me thangs."

"What kind of thangs?"

"Well..." Danny debated fo' a moment n' then holla'd at Edmondz bout Daddy's trunk wit all his wild lil' freestylin up in it, n' bout how tha fuck tha movers hadn't lost it between Vermont and

Colorado afta all. Well shiiiit, it had been right under tha stairs all along.

"And yo' daddy found it where Tony holla'd da thug would?"

"Oh fo'sho, sir. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Only Tony didn't tell mah dirty ass yo. Dude flossed mah dirty ass."

"I understand. Danny, what tha fuck did Tony show you last night, biatch? When you locked yo ass up in tha bathroom?"

"I don't remember," Danny holla'd doggystyle.

"Is you sure?"

"Yes, sir."

"A moment ago I holla'd you locked tha bathroom door. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. But dat wasn't right, was it, biatch? Tony locked tha door."

"Fuck dat shit, sir. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Tony couldn't lock tha door cuz he isn't real. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack yo. Dude wanted mah crazy ass ta do it, so I done did. I locked dat shit."

"Do Tony always show you where lost thangs are?"

"Fuck dat shit, sir. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Sometimes da perved-out muthafucka shows me thangs dat is goin ta happen."

"Really?"

"Sure. Like one time Tony flossed mah crazy ass tha amusements and

wild animal park up in Great Barrington. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Tony holla'd Daddy was goin ta take me there fo' mah birthday. It make me wanna hollar playa! Dude did, like a muthafucka."

"What else do da perved-out muthafucka show yo slick ass?"

Danny frowned. "Signs yo. He's always showin me wack oldschool signs fo' realz. And I can't read them, hardly eva."

"Why do you suppose Tony would do that, Danny?"

"I don't know." Danny brightened. "But mah daddy n' mommy is teachin me ta read, n' I'm tryin real hard."

"So you can read Tony's signs."

"Well, I straight-up wanna learn, so check it before ya wreck it. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. But dat too, yeah."

"Do you like Tony, Danny?"

Danny looked all up in tha tile floor n' holla'd nothing.

"Danny?"

"It's hard ta tell," Danny holla'd. "I used to. I used ta hope he'd come every last muthafuckin day, cuz he always flossed mah crazy ass phat thangs, especially since Mommy n' Daddy don't be thinkin bout DIVORCE no mo'." Dr. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Edmonds's gaze sharpened yo, but Danny didn't notice yo. Dude was lookin hard all up in tha floor, concentratin on expressin his dirty ass. "But now whenever his schmoooove ass comes da perved-out muthafucka shows me shitty thangs fo' realz. Awful thangs. Like up in tha bathroom last night. Da thangs da perved-out muthafucka shows me, they stin me like dem wasps stung mah dirty ass. Only Tony's thangs stin me up here." Dude cocked a gangbangin' finger gravely at his cold-ass temple, a lil' small-ass pimp unconsciously burlesquin suicide.

"What thangs, Danny?"

"I can't remember!" Danny cried out, agonized. "I'd rap if I could hommie! It's like I can't remember cuz it's so shitty I don't wanna remember n' shiznit fo' realz. All I can remember when I raise up is REDRUM."

"Red drum or red rum?"

"Rum.,'

"What's that, Danny?"

"I don't know."

"Danny?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Yo ass betta make Tony come now?"

"I don't know yo. Dude don't always come. I don't even know if I want his ass ta come no mo'."

"Try, Danny. I'll be right here."

Danny looked at Edmondz doubtfully. Edmondz nodded encouragement.

Danny let up a long, sighin breath n' nodded. "But I don't know if it will work. I never done did it wit mah playas lookin all up in mah grill before fo' realz. And Tony don't always come, anyway."

"If da ruffneck don't, da ruffneck don't," Edmondz holla'd. "I just want you ta try."

"Okay."

Dude dropped his wild lil' freakadelic gaze ta Edmonds's slowly swingin loafers n' cast his crazy-ass mind outward toward his crazy-ass mommy n' daddy. They was here someplace... right beyond dat wall wit tha picture on it, as a matta of fact. In tha waitin room where they had come in. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Sittin side by side but not rappin'. Leafin all up in magazines. Worried. Bout his muthafuckin ass.

Dude concentrated harder, his brow furrowing, tryin ta git Into tha feelin of his crazy-ass mommy's thoughts, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. Dat shiznit was always harder when they weren't right there up in tha room wit his muthafuckin ass. Then his thugged-out lil' punk-ass fuckin started ta git dat shit. Mommy was thankin on some sista n' shiznit yo. Her sista n' shit. Da sista was dead as fuckin fried chicken. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. His mommy was thankin dat was tha main thang dat turned her mommy tha fuck into such a

(hitch?)

into such a oldschool biddy. Because her sista had died. As a lil hoe dat biiiiatch was

(hit by a cold-ass lil hoopty oh god i could never stand anythang like dat again n' again n' again like aileen but what tha fuck if he's sick straight-up sick cancer spinal meningitis leukemia dome tumor like john gunther's lil hustla or muscular dystrophy oh jeez lil playas his thugged-out age git leukemia all tha time radium treatments chemotherapy we couldn't afford anythang like dat but of course they just can't turn you up ta take a thugged-out dirtnap on tha street can they n' anyway he's all right all right all right you straight-up shouldn't let yo ass think)

(Danny-)

(about aileen and)

(Dannee-)

(that car)

(Dannee-)

But Tony wasn't there, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. Only his voice fo' realz. And as it faded, Danny followed it down tha fuck into darkness, fallin n' tumblin down some magic hole between Dr. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Bizzle's swingin loafers, past a funky-ass bangin knockin sound, further, a funky-ass bathtub cruised silently by up in tha darknizz wit some wack thang lollin up in it, past a sound like dopely chimin church bells, past a cold-ass lil clock under a thugged-out dome of glass.

Then tha dark was pierced feebly by a single light, festooned wit cobwebs. Da weak glow disclosed a stone floor dat looked damp n' unpleasant. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Somewhere not far distant was a steady mechanical roarin sound yo, but muted, not frightening. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Soporific. Dat shiznit was tha thang dat would be forgotten, Danny thought wit dreamy surprise.

As his wild lil' fuckin eyes adjusted ta tha gloom his schmoooove ass could peep Tony just ahead of him, a silhouette. Tony was lookin at suttin' n' Danny strained his wild lil' fuckin eyes ta peep what tha fuck it was.

(Yo crazy-ass daddy. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. See yo' daddy?)

Of course da ruffneck done did. How tha fuck could dat schmoooove muthafucka have missed him, even up in tha basement light's feeble glow, biatch? Daddy was kneelin on tha floor, castin tha beam of a gangbangin' flashlight over oldschool cardboard boxes n' wooden crates. Da cardboard boxes was mushy n' old; a shitload of dem had split open n' spilled driftz of paper onto tha floor. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Newspapers, books, printed piecez of paper dat looked like bills yo. His daddy was examinin dem wit pimped out interest fo' realz. And then Daddy looked up n' shone his wild lil' flashlight up in another direction. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Its beam of light impaled another book, a big-ass white one bound wit gold string. Da cover looked like white leather n' shit. Dat shiznit was a scrapbook. Danny suddenly needed ta cry up ta his fuckin lil' daddy, ta tell his ass ta leave dat book alone, dat some books should not be opened. But his fuckin lil' daddy was climbin toward dat shit.

Da mechanical roarin sound, which he now recognized as tha boila all up in tha Overlook which Daddy checked three or four times every last muthafuckin day, had pimped a ominous, rhythmic hitching. Well shiiiit, it fuckin started ta sound like... like poundin fo' realz. And tha smell of mildew n' wet, rottin paper was changin ta suttin' else-the high, junipery smell of tha Shiznitty Stuff. Well shiiiit, it hung round his fuckin lil' daddy like a vapor as he reached fo' tha book... n' grasped dat shit.

Tony was somewhere up in tha darkness

(This inhuman place make human monsters. This inhuman place)

repeatin tha same incomprehensible thang over n' over.

(makes human monsters.)

Fallin all up in darknizz again, now accompanied by tha heavy, poundin thunder dat was no longer tha boila but tha sound of a whistlin mallet strikin silkpapered walls, knockin up whiffz of plasta dust. Crouchin helplessly on tha blue-black woven jungle rug.

(Come out)

(This inhuman place)

(and take yo' medicine!)

(makes human monsters.)

With a gasp dat echoed up in his own head he jerked his dirty ass outta tha darknizz yo. Handz was on his ass n' at first da perved-out muthafucka shrank back, thankin dat tha dark thang up in tha Overlook of Tony's ghetto had somehow followed his ass back tha fuck into tha ghetto of real thangs-and then Dr. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Edmondz was saying: "You're all right, Danny. You're all right. Everythang is fine."

Danny recognized tha doctor, then his surroundings up in tha crib yo. Dude fuckin started ta shudder helplessly. Edmondz held his muthafuckin ass.

When tha erection fuckin started ta subside, Edmondz asked, "Yo ass holla'd suttin' bout monsters, Danny-what was it?"

"This inhuman place," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd gutturally. "Tony holla'd at mah dirty ass... dis inhuman place... makes... makes..." Dude shook his head. "Can't remember."

"Try!"

"I can't."

"Did Tony come?"

"Yes yes y'all."

"What did da perved-out muthafucka show yo slick ass?"

"Dark. Pounding. I don't remember."

"Where was yo slick ass?"

"Leave me alone biaaatch! I don't remember playa! Leave me alone!" Dude fuckin started ta sob helplessly up in fear n' frustration. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Dat shiznit was all gone, dissolved tha fuck into a sticky mess like a wet bundle of paper, tha memory unreadable.

Edmondz went ta tha wata coola n' gots his ass a paper cup of gin n juice n' shit. Danny drank it n' Edmondz gots his ass another one.

"Better?"

"Yes yes y'all."

"Danny, I don't wanna badger you, biatch... tease you bout this, I mean. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. But can you remember anythang bout before Tony came?"

"My fuckin mommy," Danny holla'd slowly. "She's worried bout mah dirty ass."

"Mothers always are, muthafucka."

"No... dat freaky freaky biatch had a sista dat took a dirt nap when dat biiiiatch was a lil hoe fo' realz. Aileen. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch was thankin bout how tha fuck Aileen gots hit by a cold-ass lil hoopty n' dat made her worried bout mah dirty ass. I don't remember anythang else."

Edmondz was lookin at his ass sharply. "Just now dat biiiiatch was thankin that, biatch? Out up in tha waitin room?"

"Yes, sir."

"Danny, how tha fuck would you know that?"

"I don't know," Danny holla'd wanly. "Da shining, I guess."

"Da what?"

Danny shook his head straight-up slowly. "I'm wack tired. Can't I go peep mah mommy n' daddy, biatch? I don't wanna answer any mo' thangs. I'm tired. And mah stomach hurts."

"Is you goin ta throw up?"

"Fuck dat shit, sir. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. I just wanna go peep mah mommy n' daddy."

"Okay, Dan." Edmondz stood up. "Yo ass go on up n' peep dem fo' a minute, then bust dem up in so I can rap ta dem wild-ass muthafuckas. Okay?','

"Yes, sir."

"There is books up there ta peep. Yo ass like books, don't yo slick ass?"

"Yes, sir," Danny holla'd dutifully.

"You're a phat boy, Danny."

Danny gave his ass a gangbangin' faint smile.



"I can't find a thang wack wit him," Dr. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Edmondz holla'd ta tha Torrances. "Not physically. Menstrually, he's bright n' rather too imaginative. Well shiiiit, it happens. Lil Pimps gotta grow tha fuck into they imaginations like a pair of oversized shoes. Danny's is still way too big-ass fo' his muthafuckin ass. Ever had his IQ tested?"

"I don't believe up in them," Jack holla'd. "They straight-jacket tha expectationz of both muthafathas n' mackdaddys."

Dr. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Edmondz nodded. "That may be. But if you did test him, I be thinkin you'd find he's right off tha scale fo' his thugged-out age crew yo. His verbal ability, fo' a funky-ass pimp whoz ass is five goin on six, be amazing."

"Us dudes don't rap down ta him," Jack holla'd wit a trace of pride.

"I doubt if you've eva had ta up in order ta make yo ass understood." Edmondz paused, fiddlin wit a pen. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. "Dude went tha fuck into a trizzle while I was wit his muthafuckin ass fo' realz. At mah request. Exactly as you busted lyrics bout his ass up in tha bathroom last night fo' realz. All his crazy-ass musclez went lax, his body slumped, his wild lil' fuckin eyeballs rotated outward. Textbook autohypnosis. I was amazed. I still am."

Da Torrances sat forward. "What happened?" Wendy axed tensely, n' Edmondz carefully related Danny's trance, tha muttered phrase from which Edmondz had only been able ta pluck tha word "monsters," tha "dark," tha "pounding." Da aftermath of tears, near-hysteria, n' straight-up trippin stomach.

"Tony again," Jack holla'd.

"What do it mean?" Wendy asked. "Has you done any idea?"

"A few. Yo ass might not like dem wild-ass muthafuckas."

"Go ahead anyway," Jack holla'd at his muthafuckin ass.

"From what tha fuck Danny holla'd at me, his `invisible playa' was truly a gangbangin' playa until you folks moved up here from New England. Tony has only become a threatenin figure since dat move. Da pleasant interludes have become nightmarish, even mo' frightenin ta yo' lil hustla cuz his schmoooove ass can't remember exactly what tha fuck tha nightmares is about. That's common enough cause I gots dem finger-lickin' chickens wit tha siz-auce. We all remember our pleasant trips mo' clearly than tha freaky ones. There seems ta be a funky-ass buffer somewhere between tha conscious n' tha subconscious, n' one hell of a funky-ass bluenose lives up in there, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. This censor only lets all up in a lil' small-ass amount, n' often what tha fuck do come all up in is only symbolic. That's oversimplified Freud yo, but it do pretty much describe what tha fuck we know of tha mind's interaction wit itself."

"Yo ass be thinkin movin has upset Danny dat badly?" Wendy asked.

"It may have, if tha move took place under traumatic circumstances," Edmondz holla'd. "Did it?"

Wendy n' Jack exchanged a glance.

"I was teachin at a prep school," Jack holla'd slowly. "I lost mah thang."

"I see," Edmondz holla'd. Dude put tha pen da perved-out muthafucka shitty been playin wit firmly back up in its holda n' shit. "There's mo' here, I'm afraid. Well shiiiit, it may be fucked up ta you, biatch. Yo crazy-ass lil hustla seems ta believe you two have seriously contemplated divorce yo. Dude was rappin of it up in a offhand way yo, but only cuz his thugged-out lil' punk-ass believes yo ass is no longer thankin bout dat shit."

Jack's grill dropped open, n' Wendy recoiled as if slapped. Da blood drained from her face.

"We never even discussed dat shiznit son!" her big-ass booty holla'd. "Not up in front of him, not even up in front of each other playa! We-"

"I be thinkin it's dopest if you KNOW every last muthafuckin thang, Doctor," Jack holla'd. "Shortly afta Danny was born, I became a alcoholic. I'd had a thugged-out drankin problem all tha way all up in college, it subsided a lil afta Wendy n' I met, cropped up worse than eva afta Danny started doin thangs n' tha freestylin I consider ta be mah real work was goin badly. When Danny was three n' a half, da perved-out muthafucka spilled some brew on a funky-ass bunch of papers I was hustlin on... papers I was shufflin around, anyway... n' I... well... oh shit." His voice broke yo, but his wild lil' fuckin eyes remained dry n' unflinching. "It soundz so goddam beastly holla'd up loud. I broke his thugged-out arm turnin his ass round ta spank his muthafuckin ass. Three months lata I gave up drinking. I haven't touched it since."

"I see," Edmondz holla'd neutrally. "I knew tha arm had been broken, of course. Dat shiznit was set well." Dude pushed back from his fuckin lil' desk a lil n' crossed his fuckin legs. "If I may be frank, it's obvious dat he's been up in no way played since then. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Other than tha stings, there's not a god damn thang on his ass but tha aiiight bruises n' scabs dat any kid has up in abundance."

"Of course not," Wendy holla'd hotly. "Jack didn't mean-"

"Fuck dat shit, Wendy," Jack holla'd. "I meant ta do dat shit. I guess someplace inside I straight-up did mean ta do dat ta his muthafuckin ass. Or suttin' even worse." Dude looked back at Edmondz again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. "Yo ass know something, Doctor, biatch? This is tha last time tha word divorce has been mentioned between our asses fo' realz. And hittin tha brew like a muthafucka fo' realz. And child-beating. Three firsts up in five minutes."

"That may be all up in tha root of tha problem," Edmondz holla'd. "I aint a psychiatrist. If you want Danny ta peep a cold-ass lil lil pimp psychiatrist, I can recommend a phat one whoz ass works outta tha Mission Ridge MedicinalCenta up in Boulder n' shit. But I be fairly Kool & Tha Gang of mah diagnosis. Danny be a intelligent, imaginative, perceptizzle boy. I don't believe da thug would done been as upset by yo' marital problems as you believed. Lil Small-Ass lil pimps is pimped out accepters. They don't KNOW shame, or tha need ta hide thangs."

Jack was studyin his hands. Wendy took one of dem n' squeezed dat shit.

"But da perved-out muthafucka sensed tha thangs dat was wrong. Chief among dem from his thugged-out lil' point of view was not tha fucked up arm but tha broken-or breaking-link between you two yo. Dude mentioned divorce ta me yo, but not tha fucked up arm. When mah nurse mentioned tha set ta him, da perved-out muthafucka simply shrugged if off. Dat shiznit was no heat thang. `It happened a long-ass time ago' is what tha fuck I be thinkin da perved-out muthafucka holla'd."

"That kid," Jack muttered. His jaws was clamped together, tha musclez up in tha cheeks standin out. "Us dudes don't deserve his muthafuckin ass."

"Yo ass have him, all tha same," Edmondz holla'd dryly. "At any rate, he retires tha fuck into a gangbangin' fantasy ghetto from time ta time. Nothang unusual bout that; fuckin shitloadz of lil playas do fo' realz. As I recall, I had mah own invisible playa when I was Danny's age, a poppin' off roosta named Chug-Chug. Of course no one could peep Chug-Chug but mah dirty ass. I had two olda brothers whoz ass often left me behind, n' up in such a thang Chug-Chug came up in mighty handy fo' realz. And of course you two must KNOW why Danny's invisible playa is named Tony instead of Mike or Hal or Dutch."

"Yes," Wendy holla'd.

"Has you done eva pointed it up ta him?"

"No," Jack holla'd. "Should we?"

"Why bother, biatch? Let his ass realize it up in his own time, by his own logic. Yo ass see, Danny's fantasies was considerably deeper than dem dat grow round tha ordinary invisible playa syndrome yo, but he felt he needed Tony dat much mo' n' mo' n' mo'. Tony would come n' show his ass pleasant thangs. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Sometimes dunkadelic thangs fo' realz. Always phat thangs. Once Tony flossed his ass where Daddy's lost trunk was... under tha stairs fo' realz. Another time Tony flossed his ass dat Mommy n' Daddy was goin ta take his ass ta a amusement park fo' his birthday-"

"At Great Barrington!" Wendy cried. "But how tha fuck could he know dem thangs, biatch? It's eerie, tha thangs his schmoooove ass comes up wit sometimes fo' realz. Almost as if-"

"Dude had second sight?" Edmondz asked, smiling.

"Dude started doin thangs wit a cold-ass lil caul," Wendy holla'd weakly.

Edmonds's smile became a good, hearty laugh. Jack n' Wendy exchanged a glizzle n' then also smiled, both of dem amazed at how tha fuck easy as fuck it was. Danny's occasionizzle "lucky guesses" bout thangs was suttin' else they had not discussed much.

"Next you'll be spittin some lyrics ta me his schmoooove ass can levitate," Edmondz holla'd, still smiling. "Fuck dat shit, no, no, I'm afraid not. It's not extrasensory but phat oldschool human perception, which up in Danny's case is unusually keen. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Mista Muthafuckin Torrance, he knew yo' trunk was under tha stairs cuz you had looked everywhere else. Process of elimination, what, biatch? It's so simple Ellery Biatch would laugh at dat shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Sooner or lata you would have thought of it yo ass.

"As fo' tha amusement park at Great Barrington, whose scam was dat originally, biatch? Yours or his?"

"His, of course," Wendy holla'd. "They advertised on all tha mornin children's programs yo. Dude was wild ta bounce tha fuck out. But tha thang is, Doctor, we couldn't afford ta take his muthafuckin ass fo' realz. And our crazy asses had holla'd at his ass so."

"Then a men's magazine I'd sold a rap ta back up in 1971 busted a cold-ass lil check fo' fifty dollars," Jack holla'd. "They was reprintin tha rap up in a annual, or something. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So our phat asses decided ta spend it on Danny."

Edmondz shrugged. "Wish fulfillment plus a thugged-out dirty coincidence."

"Goddammit, I bet that's just right," Jack holla'd.

Edmondz smiled a lil. "And Danny his dirty ass holla'd at mah crazy ass dat Tony often flossed his ass thangs dat never occurred. Visions based on faulty perception, that's all. Danny is bustin subconsciously what tha fuck these so-called mystics n' mind readaz do like consciously n' cynically. I admire his ass fo' dat shit. If game don't cause his ass ta retract his thugged-out antennae, I be thinkin he'll be like a man."

Wendy nodded-of course dat dunkadelic hoe thought Danny would be like a man-but tha doctor's explanation struck her as glib. Well shiiiit, it smoked mo' like margarine than butter n' shit. Edmondz had not lived wit dem wild-ass muthafuckas yo. Dude had not been there when Danny found lost buttons, holla'd at her dat maybe tha TV Guide was under tha bed, dat tha pimpin' muthafucka thought his thugged-out lil' punk-ass betta wear his bangin rubbers ta nursery school even though tha sun was out... n' lata dat dizzle they had strutted home under her umbrella all up in tha pouringrain. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Edmondz couldn't know of tha curious way Danny had of preguessin dem both. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch would decizzle ta have a unusual evenin cup of tea, go up in tha kitchen n' find her cup up wit a chronic bag up in dat shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch would remember dat tha books was due all up in tha library n' find dem all neatly piled up on tha hall table, her library card on top. Or Jack would take it tha fuck into his head ta wax tha Volkswagen n' find Danny already up there, listenin ta tinny top-forty noize on his crystal radio as da perved-out muthafucka sat on tha curb ta watch.

Aloud her big-ass booty holla'd, "Then why tha nightmares now, biatch? Why did Tony tell his ass ta lock tha bathroom door?"

"I believe it's cuz Tony has outlived his usefulness," Edmondz holla'd. "Dude was born-Tony, not Danny-at a time when you n' yo' homeboy was strainin ta keep yo' marriage together n' shit. Yo crazy-ass homeboy was drankin too much. There was tha incident of tha fucked up arm. Da ominous on tha down-low between you, biatch."

Ominous on tha fuckin' down-low, fo'sho, dat phrase was tha real thang, anyway. Da stiff, tense meals where tha only conversation had been please pass tha butta or Danny, smoke tha rest of yo' carrots or may I be excused,. Biiiatch please.Da nights when Jack was gone n' dat freaky freaky biatch had lain down, dry-eyed, on tha couch while Danny peeped TV. Da mornings when she n' Jack had stalked round each other like two mad salty pussies wit a quivering, frightened mouse between dem wild-ass muthafuckas. Well shiiiit, it all rang true;

(dear God, do oldschool scars eva stop hurting?)

horribly, horribly true.

Edmondz resumed, "But thangs have chizzled. Yo ass know, schizoid behavior be a pimpin' common thang up in lil' thugs. It's accepted, cuz all we adults have dis unspoken agreement dat lil pimps is lunatics. They have invisible playas. They may go n' sit up in tha closet when they're pissed off, withdrawin from tha ghetto. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. They attach talismanic importizzle ta a special blanket, or a teddy bear, or a stuffed tiger n' shit. They suck they thumbs. When a adult sees thangs dat aren't there, we consider his ass locked n loaded fo' tha rubber room. When a cold-ass lil lil pimp say he's peeped a troll up in his bedroom or a vampire outside tha window, we simply smile indulgently. Our thugged-out asses gotz a one-sentence explanation dat explains tha whole range of such phenomena up in children-"

"He'll grow outta it," Jack holla'd.

Edmondz blinked. "My fuckin straight-up lyrics," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. "Yes yes y'all. Now I would guess dat Danny was up in a pimpin' phat posizzle ta pimp a gangbangin' full-fledged psychosis. Unaiiight home game, a funky-ass big-ass imagination, tha invisible playa whoz ass was so real ta his ass dat he nearly became real ta you, biatch. Instead of `growin up of' is childhood schizophrenia, he might well have grown tha fuck into dat shit."

"And become autistic?" Wendy asked. Biatch had read bout autism. Da word itself frightened her; it sounded like dread n' white silence.

"Possible but not necessarily yo. Dude might simply have entered Tony's ghetto somedizzle n' never come back ta what tha fuck his schmoooove ass calls `real thangs. ' "

"God," Jack holla'd.

"But now tha basic thang has chizzled drastically. Mista Muthafuckin Torrizzle no longer drinks. Yo ass is up in a freshly smoked up place where conditions have forced tha three of y'all tha fuck into a tighta crew unit than eva before-certainly tighta than mah own, where mah hoe n' lil playas may peep me fo' only two or three minutes a thugged-out day. It make me wanna hollar playa! To mah mind, he is up in tha slick healin thang fo' realz. And I be thinkin tha straight-up fact dat he be able ta differentiate so sharply between Tony's ghetto n' `real thangs' say a shitload bout tha fundamentally healthy state of his crazy-ass mind. Dude say dat you two is no longer thankin bout divorce. Is he as right as I be thinkin he is?"

"Yes," Wendy holla'd, n' Jack squeezed her hand tightly, almost painfully. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch squeezed back.

Edmondz nodded. "Dude straight-up don't need Tony no mo'. Danny is flushin his ass outta his system. Tony no longer brangs pleasant visions but straight-up shitty nightmares dat is too frightenin fo' his ass ta remember except fragmentarily yo. Dude internalized Tony durin a gangbangin' finger-lickin' difficult-desperate-life thang, n' Tony aint leavin doggystyle. But he is leaving. Yo crazy-ass lil hustla be a lil like a junkie kickin tha habit."

Dude stood up, n' tha Torrances stood also.

"As I holla'd, I'm not a psychiatrist. If tha nightmares is still continuin when yo' thang all up in tha Overlook endz next spring, Mista Muthafuckin Torrance, I would straight fuckin urge you ta take his ass ta dis playa up in Boulder."

"I will."

"Well, let's go up n' tell his ass his schmoooove ass can bounce back ta tha doggy den," Edmondz holla'd.

"I wanna fuck you," Jack holla'd at his ass painfully. "I feel betta bout all dis than I have up in a straight-up long time."

"So do I," Wendy holla'd.

At tha door, Edmondz paused n' looked at Wendy. "Do you or did you gotz a sister, Mrs. Torrance, biatch? Named Aileen?"

Wendy looked at him, surprised. "Yes, I done did. Biatch was capped outside our home up in Somersworth, New Hampshire, when dat biiiiatch was six n' I was ten. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch chased a funky-ass bizzle tha fuck into tha street n' was struck by a thugged-out delivery van."

"Do Danny know that?"

"I don't know. I don't be thinkin so."

"Dude say you was thankin bout her up in tha waitin room."

"I was," Wendy holla'd slowly. "For tha last time in... oh, I don't know how tha fuck long."

"Do tha word 'redrum' mean anythang ta either of yo slick ass?"

Wendy shook her head but Jack holla'd, "Dude mentioned dat word last night, just before da thug went ta chill. Red drum."

"Fuck dat shit, rum," Edmondz erected. This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. "Dude was like emphatic bout dis shit. Rum fo' realz. As up in tha drink. Da alcatronic drink."

"Oh," Jack holla'd. "It fits in, don't it?" Dude took his handkerchizzle outta his back pocket n' wiped his fuckin lips wit dat shit.

"Do tha phrase `the shining' mean anythang ta yo slick ass?"

This time they both shook they heads.

"Doesn't matter, I guess," Edmondz holla'd. Dude opened tha door tha fuck into tha waitin room. "Anybody here named Danny Torrizzle dat wanna bounce back ta tha doggy den?"

"Yea muthafucka, Daddy dawwwwg! Yea muthafucka, Mommy!" Dude stood up from tha lil' small-ass table where dat schmoooove muthafucka had been leafin slowly all up in a cold-ass lil copy of Where tha Wild Things Is n' mutterin tha lyrics he knew aloud.

Dude ran ta Jack, whoz ass scooped his ass up. Wendy ruffled his hair.

Edmondz peered at his muthafuckin ass. "If you don't ludd yo' mommy n' daddy, you can stay wit phat oldschool Bizzle."

"Fuck dat shit, sir!" Danny holla'd emphatically yo. Dude slung one arm round Jack's neck, one arm round Wendy's, n' looked radiantly horny.

"Okay," Edmondz holla'd, smilin yo. Dude looked at Wendy. "Yo ass call if you have any problems."

"Yes yes y'all."

"I don't be thinkin you will," Edmondz holla'd, smiling.

Chapta 18. Da Scrapbook
Jack found tha scrapbook on tha straight-up original gangsta of November, while his hoe n' lil hustla was hikin up tha rutted oldschool road dat ran from behind tha roque court ta a thugged-out deserted sawmill two milez further up. Da fine drizzle still held, n' all three of dem had acquired improbable autumn suntans.

Dude had gone down up in tha basement ta knock tha press down on tha boila n' then, on impulse, dat schmoooove muthafucka had taken tha flashlight from tha shelf where tha plumbin schematics was n' decided ta peep a shitload of tha oldschool papers yo. Dude was also lookin fo' phat places ta set his cold-ass traps, although da ruffneck didn't plan ta do dat fo' another month-I want dem all ta be home from vacation, dat schmoooove muthafucka had holla'd at Wendy.

Shinin tha flashlight ahead of him, da perved-out muthafucka stepped past tha elevator shaft (at Wendy's insistence they hadn't used tha elevator since they moved in) n' all up in tha lil' small-ass stone arch yo. His nozzle wrinkled all up in tha smell of rottin paper n' shit. Behind his ass tha boila kicked on wit a thunderin whoosh, makin his ass jump.

Dude flickered tha light around, whistlin tunelessly between his cold-ass teeth. There was a scale-model Andes range down here: dozenz of boxes n' crates stuffed wit papers, most of dem white n' shapeless wit age n' damp. Others had fucked up open n' spilled yellowed sheavez of paper onto tha stone floor. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. There was balez of newspaper tied up wit hayrope. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Some boxes contained what tha fuck looked like ledgers, n' others contained invoices bound wit rubber bands. Jack pulled one up n' put tha flashlight beam on dat shit.

ROCKY MOUNTAIN EXPRESS, INC.

To: OVERLOOK HOTEL

From: SIDEY'S WAREHOUSE, 1210 16th Street, Denver, CO.

Via: CANDIAN PACIFIC RR

Contents: 400 CASES DELSEY TOILET TISSUE, 1 GROSS/CASE

Signed D E F

Date August 24, 1954

Smiling, Jack let tha paper drop back tha fuck into tha box.

Dude flashed tha light above it n' it speared a hangin lightbulb, almost buried up in cobwebs. There was no chain pull.

Dude stood on tiptoe n' tried screwin tha bulb in. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Well shiiiit, it lit weakly yo. Dude picked up tha toilet-paper invoice again n' again n' again n' used it ta wipe off a shitload of tha cobwebs. Da glow didn't brighten much.

Still rockin tha flashlight, da thug wandered all up in tha boxes n' balez of paper, lookin fo' rat spoor. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. They had been here yo, but not fo' like a long-ass time... maybe muthafuckin years yo. Dude found some droppings dat was powdery wit age, n' nuff muthafuckin nestz of neatly shredded paper dat was oldschool n' unused.

Jack pulled a newspaper from one of tha bundlez n' glanced down all up in tha headline.

JOHNSON PROMISES ORDERLY TRANSITION

Says Work Begun by JFK Will Go Forward

in Comin Year

Da paper was tha Rocky Mountain Hype, dated December 19, 1963 yo. Dude dropped it back onto its pile.

Dude supposed da thug was fascinated by dat commonplace sense of history dat mah playas can feel glancin all up in tha fresh shizzle of ten or twenty muthafuckin years ago yo. Dude found gaps up in tha piled newspapers n' records; not a god damn thang from 1937 ta 1945, from 1957 ta 1960, from 1962 ta 1963. Periodz when tha hotel had been closed, he guessed. When it had been between suckers grabbin fo' tha brass ring.

Ullman's explanationz of tha Overlook's checkered game still didn't rang like legit ta his muthafuckin ass. Well shiiiit, it seemed dat tha Overlooks spectacular location ridin' solo should have guaranteed its continuin success. There had always been a Gangsta jetset, even before jets was invented, n' it seemed ta Jack dat tha Overlook should done been one of tha bases they touched up in they migrations. Well shiiiit, it even sounded right. Da Waldorf up in May, tha Bar Harbor Doggy Den up in June n' July, tha Overlook up in August n' early September, before movin on ta Bermuda, Havana, Rio, wherever n' shiznit yo. Dude found a pile of oldschool desk registas n' they bore his ass out. Nelson Rockefella up in 1950 yo. Henry Ford amp; Fam. up in 1927. Jean Harlow up in 1930. Clark Gable n' Carole Lombard. In 1956 tha whole top floor had been taken fo' a week by "Darryl F. Zanuck amp; Party." Da scrilla must have rolled down tha corridors n' tha fuck into tha chedda registas like a twentieth-century Comstock Lode. Da pimpment must done been spectacularly bad.

There was history here, all right, n' not just up in newspaper headlines. Dat shiznit was buried between tha entries up in these ledgers n' account books n' room-service chits where you couldn't like peep dat shit. In 1922 Warren G yo. Hardin had ordered a whole salmon at ten o'clock up in tha evening, n' a cold-ass lil case of Coors brew n' shit. But whom had his thugged-out lil' punk-ass been smokin n' drankin with, biatch? Had it been a poker game, biatch? A game session, biatch? What?

Jack glanced at his thugged-out lil' peep n' was surprised ta peep dat forty-five minutes had somehow slipped by since dat schmoooove muthafucka had come down here, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho yo. His handz n' arms was grimy, n' he probably smelled bad. Dude decided ta go up n' take a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shower before Wendy n' Danny gots back.

Dude strutted slowly between tha mountainz of paper, his crazy-ass mind kickin it n' tickin over possibilitizzles up in a speedy way dat was exhilaratin yo. Dude hadn't felt dis way up in years. Well shiiiit, it suddenly seemed dat tha book dat schmoooove muthafucka had semijokingly promised his dirty ass might straight-up happen. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Well shiiiit, it might even be right here, buried up in these untidy heapz of paper n' shit. Well shiiiit, it could be a work of fiction, or history, or both-a long book explodin outta dis central place up in a hundred directions.

Dude stood beneath tha cobwebby light, took his handkerchizzle from his back pocket without thinking, n' scrubbed at his fuckin lips wit it fo' realz. And dat was when da perved-out muthafucka saw tha scrapbook.

A pile of five boxes stood on his fuckin left like some totterin Pisa. Da one on top was stuffed wit mo' invoices n' ledgers. Balanced on top of them, keepin its angle of repose fo' whoz ass knew how tha fuck nuff years, was a thick scrapbook wit white leather covers, its pages bound wit two hankz of gold strang dat shitty been tied along tha bindin up in gaudy bows.

Curious, da thug went over n' took it down. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da top cover was thick wit dust yo. Dude held it on a plane at lip level, blew tha dust off up in a cold-ass lil cloud, n' opened it fo' realz. As da ruffneck did so a cold-ass lil card fluttered up n' he grabbed it up in mid-air before it could fall ta tha stone floor. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Dat shiznit was rich n' creamy, dominated by a raised engravin of tha Overlook wit every last muthafuckin window alight. Da lawn n' playground was decorated wit glowin Japanese lanterns. Well shiiiit, it looked almost as though you could step right tha fuck into it, a Overlook Hotel dat had existed thirty muthafuckin years ago.

Horace M. Derwent Requests

Da Pleasure of Yo crazy-ass Company

At a Maxed Ball ta Celebrate

Da Grand Openin of

THE OVERLOOK HOTEL

Dinner Will Be Served At 8 P. M.

Unmaskin And Steppin At Midnight

August 29, 1945 RSVP

Dinner at eight son! Unmaskin at midnight playa!

Dude could almost peep dem up in tha dinin room, tha richest pimps up in Tha Ghetto n' they dem hoes. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Tuxedos n' glimmerin starched shirts; evenin gowns; tha crew playing; gleamin high-heeled pumps. Da clink of glasses, tha jocund pop of champagne corks. Da war was over, or almost over n' shit. Da future lay ahead, clean n' shinin fo' realz. Tha Ghetto was tha colossuz of tha ghetto n' at last she knew it n' accepted dat shit.

And later, at midnight, Derwent his dirty ass crying: "Unmask! Unmask!" Da masks comin off and...

(Da Red Dirtnap held sway over all!)

Dude frowned. What left field had dat come up of, biatch? That was Poe, tha Great Gangsta Hack fo' realz. And surely tha Overlook-this shining, glowin Overlook on tha invitation dat schmoooove muthafucka held up in his hands-was tha farthest cry from E fo' realz. A. Poe imaginable.

Dude put tha invitation back n' turned ta tha next page fo' realz. A paste-up from one of tha Denver papers, n' scratched beneath it tha date: May 15, 1947.

POSH MOUNTAIN RESORT REOPENS WITH

STELLAR GUEST REGISTER

Derwent Says Overlook Will Be "Showplace of tha World"

By Dizzy Felton, Features Editor

Da Overlook Hotel has been opened n' reopened up in its thirty-eight-year history yo, but rarely wit such steez n' dash as dat promised by Horace Derwent, tha mysterious California millionaire whoz ass is tha sickest fuckin balla of tha hostelry.

Derwent, whoz ass make no secret of havin sunk mo' than one mazillion dollars tha fuck into his newest venture-and some say tha figure is closer ta three million-says dat "Da freshly smoked up Overlook is ghon be one of tha ghetto's showplaces, tha kind of hotel yo big-ass booty is ghon remember overnigbtin up in thirty muthafuckin years later."

When Derwent, whoz ass is rumored ta have substantial Las Vegas holdings, was axed if his thugged-out lil' purchase n' refurbishin of tha Overlook signaled tha openin glock up in a funky-ass battle ta legalize casino-style gamblin up in Colorado, tha aircraft, porno, munitions, n' shippin magnate denied dat shit... wit a smile. "Da Overlook would be skankyened by gambling," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, "and don't be thinkin I'm knockin Vegas muthafucka! They've gots a fuckin shitload of of mah markers up there fo' me ta do dat son! I have no interest up in lobbyin fo' legalized gamblin up in Colorado. Well shiiiit, it would be spittin tha fuck into tha wind."

When tha Overlook opens officially (there was a gigantic n' hugely successful jam there some time ago when tha actual work was finished), tha newly painted, papered, n' decorated rooms is ghon be occupied by a stellar hommie list, rangin from Chic designer Corbat Stani to...

Smilin bemusedly, Jack turned tha page. Now da thug was lookin at a gangbangin' full-page ad from tha New York Sundizzle Times travel section. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. On tha page afta dat a rap on Derwent his dirty ass, a funky-ass baldin playa wit eyes dat pierced you even from a oldschool newsprint photo yo. Dude was bustin rimless spectaclez n' a gangbangin' forties-style pencilline mustache dat did not a god damn thang at all ta make his ass be lookin like Errol Flynn. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. His grill was dat of a accountant. Dat shiznit was tha eyes dat made his ass be lookin like one of mah thugs or suttin' else.

Jack skimmed tha article rapidly yo. Dude knew most of tha shiznit from a Newsweek rap on Derwent tha year before. Born skanky up in St. Paul, never finished high school, joined tha Navy instead. Rose rapidly, then left up in a funky-ass bitta wrangle over tha patent on a freshly smoked up type of propella dat dat schmoooove muthafucka had designed. In tha tug of war between tha Navy n' a unknown lil' playa named Horace Derwent, Uncle Sam came off tha predictable balla n' shit. But Uncle Sam had never gotten another patent, n' there had been a shitload of dem wild-ass muthafuckas.

In tha late twentizzles n' early thirties, Derwent turned ta aviation. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude looted up a funky-ass bankrupt cropdustin company, turned it tha fuck into a airmail service, n' prospered. Mo' patents followed: a freshly smoked up monoplane win design, a funky-ass bomb carriage used on tha Flyin Fortresses dat had drizzled fire on Hamburg n' Dr. Dre n' Berlin, a machine glock dat was cooled by alcohol, a prototype of tha ejection seat lata used up in United Hoodz jets.

And along tha line, tha accountant whoz ass lived up in tha same skin as tha inventor kept pilin up tha investments fo' realz. A piddlin strang of munizzle factories up in New York n' New Jersey. Five textile mills up in New England. Chemical factories up in tha bankrupt n' groanin South fo' realz. At tha end of tha Depression his wealth had been not a god damn thang but a handful of controllin interests, looted at abysmally low prices, salable only at lower prices still fo' realz. At one point Derwent boasted dat his schmoooove ass could liquidate straight-up n' realize tha price of a threeyear-old Chevrolet.

There shitty been rumors, Jack recalled, dat a shitload of tha means employed by Derwent ta keep his head above wata was less than savory. Involvement wit bootlegging. Prostitution up in tha Midwest. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Smugglin up in tha coastal areaz of tha Downtown where his wild lil' fertilizer factories were, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. Finally a association wit tha nascent westside gamblin interests.

Probably Derwent's most hyped investment was tha purchase of tha founderin Top Mark Studios, which had not had a lil' bit since they lil pimp star, Little Margery Morris, had took a dirt nap of a heroin overdose up in 1934. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch was fourteen. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Little Margery, whoz ass had specialized up in dope seven-year-oldz whoz ass saved marriages n' tha livez of dawgs unjustly accused of cappin' chickens, had been given tha freshest Hollywood funeral up in history by Top Mark-the straight-up legit rap was dat Little Margery had contracted a "wastin disease" while entertainin at a New York orphanage-and some cynics suggested tha basement had laid up all dat long chronic cuz it knew dat shiznit was buryin itself.

Derwent hired a keen bidnizzman n' ragin sex maniac named Henry Finkel ta run Top Mark, n' up in tha two muthafuckin years before Pearl Harbor tha basement ground up sixty pornos, fifty-five of which glided right tha fuck into tha grill of tha Hayes Office n' spit on its big-ass blue nose. Da other five was posse hustlin films. Boy it's gettin hot, yes indeed it is. Da feature films was big-ass successes. Durin one of dem a unnamed costume designer had juryrigged a strapless bra fo' tha heroine ta step tha fuck up in durin tha Grand Ball scene, where she revealed every last muthafuckin thang except possibly tha birthmark just below tha cleft of her buttocks. Derwent received credit fo' dis invention as well, n' his bangin reputation-or notoriety-grew.

Da war had made his ass rich n' da thug was still rich. Livin up in Chicago, seldom peeped except fo' Derwent Enterprises board meetings (which he ran wit a iron hand), dat shiznit was rumored dat he owned United Air Lines, Las Vegas (where da thug was known ta have controllin interests up in four hotel-casinos n' some involvement up in at least six others), Los Angeles, n' tha U. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. S fo' realz. A. itself. Reputed ta be a gangbangin' playa of royalty, prezs, n' underworld mackdaddypins, dat shiznit was supposed by nuff dat da thug was tha richest playa up in tha ghetto. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass.

But dat schmoooove muthafucka had not been able ta cook up a go of tha Overlook, Jack thought yo. Dude put tha scrapbook down fo' a moment n' took tha lil' small-ass notebook n' mechanical pencil he always kept wit his ass outta his breast pocket yo. Dude jotted "Look tha fuck into H. Derwent, Sidwndr Ibry?" Dude put tha notebook back n' picked up tha scrapbook again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. His grill was preoccupied, his wild lil' fuckin eyes distant yo. Dude wiped his crazy-ass grill constantly wit his hand as tha pimpin' muthafucka turned tha pages.

Dude skimmed tha material dat followed, bustin a menstrual note ta read it mo' closely later n' shit. Press releases was pasted tha fuck into nuff of tha pages. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So-and-so was expected all up in tha Overlook next week, thus-and-such would be entertainin up in tha lounge (in Derwent's time it had been tha Red-Eye Lounge). Many of tha gangbangin muthafuckas was Vegas names, n' nuff of tha guests was Top Mark executives n' stars.

Then, up in a cold-ass lil clippin marked February 1, 1952:

MILLIONAIRE EXEC TO SELL COLORADO

INVESTMENTS

Deal Made wit California Investors on Overlook, Other Investments, Derwent Reveals

By Rodney Conklin, Financial Editor

In a terse communique yesterdizzle from tha Chicago officez of tha monolithic Derwent Enterprises, dat shiznit was revealed dat millionaire (like billionaire) Horace Derwent has sold outta Colorado up in a stunnin financial juice play dat is ghon be completed by October 1, 1954. Derwent's investments include natural gas, coal, hydroelectric power, n' a land pimpment company called Colorado Sunshine, Inc., which owns or holdz options on betta than 500,000 acrez of Colorado land.

Da most hyped Derwent holdin up in Colorado, tha Overlook Hotel, has already been sold, Derwent revealed up in a rare rap battle yesterday. It make me wanna hollar playa! Da buyer was a California crew of investors headed by Charlez Grondin, a gangbangin' forma director of tha California Land Development Corporation. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. While Derwent refused ta say shit bout price, informed sources...

Dude had sold up every last muthafuckin thang, lock, stock, n' barrel. Well shiiiit, it wasn't just tha Overlook. But somehow... somehow...

Dude wiped his fuckin lips wit his hand n' wished dat schmoooove muthafucka had a thugged-out drink. This would go betta wit a thugged-out drink yo. Dude turned mo' pages.

Da California crew had opened tha hotel fo' two seasons, n' then sold it ta a Colorado crew called Mountainview Resorts, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. Mountainview went bankrupt up in 1957 amid chargez of corruption, nest-feathering, n' cheatin tha stockholders. Da prez of tha company blasted his dirty ass two minutes afta bein subpoenaed ta step tha fuck up before a grand jury.

Da hotel had been closed fo' tha rest of tha decade. There was a single rap bout it, a Sundizzle feature headlined FORMER GRAND HOTEL SINKING INTO DECAY. Da accompanyin photos wrenched at Jack's heart: tha paint on tha front porch peeling, tha lawn a funky-ass bald n' scabrous mess, windows fucked up by storms n' stones. This would be a part of tha book, if he straight-up freestyled it, too-the phoenix goin down tha fuck into tha ashes ta be reborn, so check it before ya wreck it. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude promised his dirty ass da thug would take care of tha place, straight-up phat care. Well shiiiit, it seemed dat before todizzle dat schmoooove muthafucka had never straight-up understood tha breadth of his bangin responsibilitizzle ta tha Overlook. Dat shiznit was almost like havin a responsibilitizzle ta history.

In 1961 four writers, two of dem Pulitzer Prize ballas, had leased tha Overlook n' reopened it as a writers' school. That had lasted one year. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. One of tha hustlas had gotten faded up in his cold-ass third-floor room, crashed outta tha window somehow, n' fell tha fuck ta his fuckin lil' dirtnap on tha cement terrace below. Da paper hinted dat it might done been suicide.

Any big-ass hotel. have gots scandals, Watson had holla'd, just like every last muthafuckin big-ass hotel has gots a pimp. Why, biatch? Hell, playas come n' go...

Suddenly it seemed dat his schmoooove ass could almost feel tha weight of tha Overlook bearin down on his ass from above, one hundred n' ten hommie rooms, tha storage rooms, kitchen, pantry, freezer, lounge, ballroom, dinin room...

(In tha room tha dem hoes come n' go)

(... n' tha Red Dirtnap held sway over all.)

Dude rubbed his fuckin lips n' turned ta tha next page up in tha scrapbook yo. Dude was up in tha last third of it now, n' fo' tha last time da thug wondered consciously whose book dis was, left atop tha highest pile of recordz up in tha cellar.

A freshly smoked up headline, dis one dated April 10, 1963.

LAS VEGAS GROUP BUYS FAMED COLORADO

HOTEL

Scenic Overlook ta Become Key Joint

Robert T. Leffing, spokesman fo' a crew of investors goin under tha name of High Ghetto Investments, announced todizzle up in Las Vegas dat High Ghetto has negotiated a thugged-out deal fo' tha hyped Overlook Hotel, a resort located high up in tha Rockies. Put ya muthafuckin choppers up if ya feel dis! Leffin declined ta mention tha namez of specific investors yo, but holla'd tha hotel would be turned tha fuck into a exclusive "key club." Dude holla'd dat tha crew he represents hopes ta push memberships ta highechelon executives up in Gangsta n' foreign g-units.

High Ghetto also owns hotels up in Montana, Wyoming, n' Utah.

Da Overlook became ghetto-known up in tha muthafuckin years 1946 ta 1952 when dat shiznit was owned by elusive mega-millionaire Horace Derwent, who...

Da item on tha next page was a mere squib, dated four months later n' shit. Da Overlook had opened under its freshly smoked up pimpment fo' realz. Apparently tha paper hadn't been able ta smoke up or wasn't horny bout whoz ass tha key holdaz were, cuz no name was mentioned but High Ghetto Investments-da most thugged-out anonymous-soundin company name Jack had eva heard except fo' a cold-ass lil chain of bike n' appliizzle shops up in westside New England dat went under tha name of Business, Inc.

Dude turned tha page n' blinked down all up in tha clippin pasted there.

MILLIONAIRE DERWENT BACK

IN COLORADO VIA BACK DOOR?

High Ghetto Exec Revealed ta be Charlez Grondin

By Rodney Conklin, Financial Editor

Da Overlook Hotel, a scenic pleasure palace up in tha Colorado high ghetto n' once tha private playthang of millionaire Horace Derwent, be all up in tha centa of a gangbangin' financial tangle which is only now beginnin ta come ta light. On April 10 of last year tha hotel was purchased by a Las Vegas firm,

High Ghetto Investments, as a key club fo' wealthy executivez of both foreign n' domestic breeds. Now informed sources say dat High Ghetto is headed by Charlez Grondin, 53, whoz ass was tha head of California Land Development Corp. until 1959, when he resigned ta take tha posizzle of executizzle veep up in tha Chicago home crib of Derwent Enterprises.

This has hustled ta speculation dat High Ghetto Investments may be controlled by Derwent, whoz ass may have acquired tha Overlook fo' tha second time, n' under decidedly peculiar circumstances.

Grondin, whoz ass was indicted n' acquitted on chargez of tax evasion up in 1960, could not be reached fo' comment, n' Horace Derwent, whoz ass guardz his own privacy jealously, had no comment when reached by telephone. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. State Representatizzle Dick Bowz of Golden has called fo' a cold-ass lil complete investigation into...

That clippin was dated July 27, 1964. Da next was a cold-ass lil column from a Sundizzle paper dat September n' shit. Da byline belonged ta Josh Brannigar, a muck-rakin investigator of tha Jack Anderson breed. Jack vaguely recalled dat Brannigar had took a dirt nap up in 1968 or '69.

MAFIA FREE-ZONE IN COLORADO?

By Josh Brannigar

It now seems possible dat tha newest r amp;r spot of Organization overlordz up in tha U. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. S. is located at a out-of-the-way hotel nestled up in tha centa of tha Rockies. Put ya muthafuckin choppers up if ya feel dis! Da Overlook Hotel, a white elephant dat has been run lucklessly by almost a thugged-out dozen different crews n' dudes since it first opened its doors up in 1910, is now bein operated as a security-jacketed "key club," ostensibly fo' unwindin bidnizzmen. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da question is, what tha fuck bidnizz is tha Overlook's key holdaz straight-up in?

Da thugz present durin tha week of August 1623 may give our asses a idea.

Da list below was obtained by a gangbangin' forma hommie of High Ghetto Investments, a cold-ass lil company first believed ta be a thugged-out dummy company owned by Derwent Enterprises. Well shiiiit, it now seems mo' likely dat Derwent's interest up in High Ghetto (if any) is outweighed by dem of nuff muthafuckin Las Vegas gamblin barons fo' realz. And these same gamin honchos done been linked up in tha past ta both suspected n' convicted underworld mackdaddypins.

Present all up in tha Overlook durin dat sunny week up in August were:

Charlez Grondin, Prezzy of High Ghetto Investments, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. When it became known up in July of dis year dat da thug was hustlin tha High Ghetto shizzle dat shiznit was announced-considerably afta tha fact-that dat schmoooove muthafucka had resigned his thugged-out lil' posizzle up in Derwent Enterprises previously. Da silver-maned Grondin, whoz ass refused ta rap ta me fo' dis column, has been tried once n' acquitted on tax evasion charges (1960).

Charlez "Baby Charlie" Battaglia, a 60-year-old Vegas empressario (controllin interests up in Da Greenback n' Da Lucky Bones on tha Strip). Battaglia be a cold-ass lil close underground playa of Grondin. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. His arrest record stretches back ta 1932, when da thug was tried n' acquitted up in tha gangland-style cappin' of Jack "Dutchy" Morgan. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Federal authoritizzles suspect his crazy-ass muthafuckin involvement up in tha sticky-icky-icky traffic, prostitution, n' cappin' fo' hire yo, but "Baby Charlie" has only been behind bars once, fo' income tax evasion up in 1955-56.

Slick Rick Scarne, tha principal stockholda of Fun Time Automatic Machines. Fun Time make slot machines fo' tha Nevada crowd, pinbizzle machines, n' jukeboxes (Melody-Coin) fo' tha rest of tha ghetto yo. Dude has done time fo' assault wit a thugged-out deadly weapon (1940), carryin a cold-ass lil concealed weapon (1948), n' conspiracy ta commit tax fraud (1961).

Peta Zeiss, a Miami-based importer, now nearin 70. For tha last five muthafuckin years Zeiss has been fightin deportation as a undesirable person. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude has been convicted on chargez of receivin n' concealin jacked property (1958), n' conspiracy ta commit tax fraud (1954). Charming, distinguished, n' courtly, Pete Zeiss is called "Poppa" by his crazy-ass muthafuckin intimates n' has been tried on chargez of cappin' n' accessory ta cappin' n' shiznit fo' realz. A big-ass stockholda up in Scarne's Fun Time company, he also has known interests up in four Las Vegas casinos.

Vittorio Gienelli, also known as "Vito tha Chopper," tried twice fo' gangland-style murders, one of dem tha ax-cappin' of Boston vice overlord Frank Scoffy. Gienelli has been indicted twenty-three times, tried fourteen times, n' convicted only once, fo' shopliftin up in 1940. Well shiiiit, it has been holla'd dat up in recent muthafuckin years Gienelli has become a juice up in tha organization's westside operation, which is centered up in Las Vegas.

Carl "Jimmy-Ricks" Prashkin, a San Frankieco investor, reputed ta be tha heir apparent of tha juice Gienelli now wields. Prashkin owns big-ass blockz of stock up in Derwent Enterprises, High Ghetto Investments, Fun Time Automatic Machines, n' three Vegas casinos. Prashkin is clean up in Tha Ghetto yo, but was indicted up in Mexico on fraud charges dat was dropped quickly three weeks afta they was brought. Well shiiiit, it has been suggested dat Prashkin may be up in charge of launderin scrilla skimmed from Vegas casino operations n' funnelin tha big-ass bucks back tha fuck into tha organization's legitimate westside operations fo' realz. And such operations may now include tha Overlook Hotel up in Colorado.

Other visitors durin tha current season include...

There was mo' but Jack only skimmed it, constantly wipin his fuckin lips wit his hand. A banker wit Las Vegas connections. Men from New York whoz ass was apparently bustin mo' up in tha Garment District than makin clothes. Men reputed ta be involved wit sticky-icky-ickys, vice, robbery, murder.

God, what tha fuck a rap dawwwwg! And they had all been here, right above him, up in dem empty rooms. Boy it's gettin hot, yes indeed it is. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Screwin high-rollin' whores on tha third floor, maybe. Drankin magnumz of champagne. Makin deals dat would turn over millionz of dollars, maybe up in tha straight-up suite of rooms where Presidents had stayed. There was a story, all right. One hell of a rap fo' realz. A lil frantically, tha pimpin' muthafucka took up his notebook n' jotted down another memo ta check all of these playas up all up in tha library up in Denver when tha caretakin thang was over n' shit. Every hotel has its pimp, biatch? Da Overlook had a whole coven of dem wild-ass muthafuckas. First suicide, then tha Mafia, what tha fuck next?

Da next clippin was a mad salty denial of Brannigar's charges by Charlez Grondin. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Jack smirked at dat shit.

Da clippin on tha next page was so big-ass dat it had been folded. Jack unfolded it n' gasped harshly. Da picture there seemed ta leap up at him: tha wallpaper had been chizzled since June of 1966 yo, but he knew dat window n' tha view perfectly well. Dat shiznit was tha westside exposure of tha Presidential Suite. Murder came next. Da chillin room wall by tha door leadin tha fuck into tha bedroom was splashed wit blood n' what tha fuck could only be white fleckz of dome matter n' shiznit fo' realz. A blank-faced cop was standin over a cold-ass lil corpse hidden by a funky-ass blanket. Jack stared, fascinated, n' then his wild lil' fuckin eyes moved up ta tha headline.

GANGLAND-STYLE SHOOTING AT

COLORADO HOTEL

Reputed Crime Overlord Shot at Mountain Key Joint

Two Others Dead

SIDEWINDER, COLO (UPI)-Forty milez from dis chilly Colorado town, a gangland-style execution has occurred up in tha ass of tha Rocky Mountains.

Da Overlook Hotel, purchased three muthafuckin years ago as a exclusive key club by a Las Vegas firm, was tha joint of a triple shotgun slaying. Two of tha pimps was either tha companions or bodyguardz of Vittorio Gienelli, also known as "Da Chopper" fo' his bangin reputed involvement up in a Boston slayin twenty muthafuckin years ago.

Popo was summoned by Robert Norman, manager of tha Overlook, whoz ass holla'd dat schmoooove muthafucka heard shots n' dat a shitload of tha guests reported two pimps bustin stockings on they faces n' carryin glocks had fled down tha fire escape n' driven off up in a late-model tan convertible.

State Trooper Benjamin Moorer discovered two dead men, lata identified as Victor T. Boorman n' Roger Macassi, both of Las Vegas, outside tha door of tha Presidential Suite where two Gangsta Presidents have stayed.

Inside, Moorer found tha body of Gienelli sprawled on tha floor. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Gienelli was apparently fleein his thugged-out attackers when da thug was cut down. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Moorer holla'd Gienelli had been blasted wit heavy-gauge shotguns at close range.

Charlez Grondin, tha representatizzle of tha company which now owns tha Overlook, could not be reached for...

Below tha clipping, up in heavy strokez of a funky-ass ball-point pen, one of mah thugs had written: They took his balls along wit dem wild-ass muthafuckas. Jack stared at dat fo' a long-ass time, feelin cold. Whose book was this?

Dude turned tha page at last, swallowin a cold-ass lil click up in his cold-ass throat fo' realz. Another column from Josh Brannigar, dis one dated early 1967 yo. Dude only read tha headline: NOTORIOUS HOTEL SOLD FOLLOWING MURDER OF UNDERWORLD FIGURE.

Da sheets followin dat clippin was blank.

(They took his balls along wit dem wild-ass muthafuckas.)

Dude flipped back ta tha beginning, lookin fo' a name or address. Even a room number n' shit. Because he felt like shizzle dat whoever had kept dis lil book of memories had stayed all up in tha hotel. But there was nothing.

Dude was gettin locked n loaded ta go all up in all tha clippings, mo' closely dis time, when a voice called down tha stairs: "Jack, biatch? Hon?"

Wendy.

Dude started, almost guiltily, as if dat schmoooove muthafucka had been drankin secretly n' dat biiiiatch would smell tha fumes on his muthafuckin ass. Ridiculous yo. Dude scrubbed his fuckin lips wit his hand n' called back, "Yeah, babe. Lookin fo' rats."

Bitch was comin down. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude heard her on tha stairs, then crossin tha boila room. Quickly, without thankin why he might be bustin it, be stuffed tha scrapbook under a pile of bills n' invoices yo. Dude stood up as dat thugged-out biiiatch came all up in tha arch.

"What up in tha ghetto have you been bustin down here, biatch? It's almost three o'clock!"

Dude smiled. "Is it dat late, biatch? I gots rootin round all up in all dis stuff. Tryin ta smoke up where tha bodies is buried, I guess."

Da lyrics clanged back viciously up in his crazy-ass mind.

Bitch came closer, lookin at him, n' he unconsciously retreated a step, unable ta help his dirty ass yo. Dude knew what tha fuck dat biiiiatch was bustin. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch was tryin ta smell liquor on his muthafuckin ass. Probably dat biiiiatch wasn't even aware of it her muthafuckin ass yo, but da thug was, n' it made his ass feel both guilty n' mad salty.

"Yo crazy-ass grill is bleeding," her big-ass booty holla'd up in a cold-ass lil curiously flat tone.

"Huh?" Dude put his hand ta his fuckin lips n' winced all up in tha thin stingin yo. His index finger came away bloody yo. His guilt increased.

"You've been rubbin yo' grill again," her big-ass booty holla'd.

Dude looked down n' shrugged. "Yeah, I guess I have."

"It's been hell fo' you, hasn't it?"

"Fuck dat shit, not so bad."

"Has it gotten any easier?"

Dude looked up at her n' made his wild lil' feet start moving. Once they was straight-up up in motion dat shiznit was easier n' shiznit yo. Dude crossed ta his hoe n' slipped a arm round her waist yo. Dude brushed aside a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass sheaf of her blond afro n' busted her neck. "Yes," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. "Where's Danny?"

"Oh, he's round somewhere, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. It's started ta cloud up outside yo. Hungry?"

Dude slipped a hand over her taut, jeans-clad bottom wit counterfeit lechery. "Like ze bear, madame."

"Watch out, slugger n' shit. Don't start suttin' you can't finish."

"Fig-fig, madame?" he asked, still rubbing. "Dirty peeotures, biatch? Unnatural positions?" As they went all up in tha arch, tha pimpin' muthafucka threw one glizzle back all up in tha box where tha scrapbook

(whose?)

was hidden. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. With tha light up dat shiznit was only a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shadow yo. Dude was relieved dat dat schmoooove muthafucka had gotten Wendy away yo. His lust became less acted, mo' natural, as they approached tha stairs.

"Maybe," her big-ass booty holla'd. "Afta we git you a sandwich-yeek!" Biatch twisted away from him, giggling. "That tickles!"

"It teeklez nozzin like Jock Torrizzle wanna teekle you, madame."

"Lay off, Jock yo. How tha fuck on some ham n' cheese... fo' tha straight-up original gangsta course?"

They went up tha stairs together, n' Jack didn't look over his shoulder again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. But tha pimpin' muthafucka thought of Watson's lyrics:

Every big-ass hotel has gots a pimp. Why, biatch? Hell, playas come n' go...

Then Wendy shut tha basement door behind them, closin it tha fuck into darkness.

Chapta 19. Outside 217
Danny was rememberin tha lyrics of one of mah thugs whoz ass had hit dat shiznit all up in tha Overlook durin tha season:

Her sayin she'd peeped suttin' up in one of tha rooms where... a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shitty-ass thang happened. That was up in Room 217 n' I want you ta promise me you won't go up in there, Danny... steer right clear...

Dat shiznit was a perfectly ordinary door, no different from any other door on tha straight-up original gangsta two floorz of tha hotel. Dat shiznit was dark gray, halfway down a cold-ass lil corridor dat ran at right anglez ta tha main second-floor hallway. Da numbers on tha door looked no different from tha doggy den numbers on tha Boulder crib buildin they had lived in. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. A 2, a 1, n' a 7. Big deal. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack. Just below dem was a tiny glass circle, a peephole. Danny had tried nuff muthafuckin of dem wild-ass muthafuckas. From tha inside you gots a wide, fish-eye view of tha corridor. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. From outside you could screw up yo' eye seven ways ta Sundizzle n' still not peep a thang fo' realz. A dirty gyp:

(Why is you here?)

Afta tha strutt behind tha Overlook, he n' Mommy had come back n' dat freaky freaky biatch had fixed his ass his wild lil' straight-up lunch, a cold-ass lil cheese n' bologna sandwich plus Campbell's Bean Soup. They ate up in Dick's kitchen n' talked. Da radio was on, gettin thin n' crackly noize from tha Estes Park station. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da kitchen was his wild lil' straight-up place up in tha hotel, n' he guessed dat Mommy n' Daddy must feel tha same way, cuz afta tryin they meals up in tha dinin room fo' three minutes or so, they had begun smokin up in tha kitchen by mutual consent, settin up chairs round Dick Hallorann's butcher block, which was almost as big-ass as they dinin room table back up in Stovington, anyway. Da dinin room had been too wack, even wit tha lights on n' tha noize playin from tha tape cassette system up in tha ofce. Yo ass was still just one of three playas chillin at a table surrounded by dozenz of other tables, all empty, all covered wit dem transparent plastic dustcloths. Mommy holla'd dat shiznit was like havin dinner up in tha middle of a Horace Walpole novel, n' Daddy had laughed n' agreed. Danny had no clue whoz ass Horace Walpole was yo, but da ruffneck did know dat Mommy's cookin had begun ta taste betta as soon as they fuckin started ta smoke it up in tha kitchen. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude kept discoverin lil flashez of Dick Hallorann's personalitizzle lyin around, n' they reassured his ass like a warm touch.

Mommy shitty smoked half a sandwich, no soup. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch holla'd Daddy must have gone up fo' a strutt of his own since both tha VW n' tha hotel truck was up in tha parkin lot. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch holla'd dat biiiiatch was chillaxed n' might lie down fo' a minute or so, if tha pimpin' muthafucka thought his schmoooove ass could amuse his dirty ass n' not git tha fuck into shit. Danny holla'd at her round a grillful of cheese n' bologna dat tha pimpin' muthafucka thought his schmoooove ass could.

"Why don't you go up tha fuck into tha playground?" she axed his muthafuckin ass. "I thought you'd ludd dat place, wit a sandbox fo' yo' trucks n' all."

Dude swallowed n' tha chicken went down his cold-ass throat up in a lump dat was dry n' hard. "Maybe I will," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, turnin ta tha radio n' fiddlin wit dat shit.

"And all dem neat hedge muthafuckas," her big-ass booty holla'd, takin his wild lil' fuckin empty plate. "Yo crazy-ass father's gots ta git up n' trim dem pretty soon."

"Yeah," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd.

(Just nasty thangs... once it had ta do wit dem damn hedges clipped ta be lookin like muthafuckas...)

"If you peep yo' daddy before I do, tell his ass I'm lyin down."

"Sure, Mom."

Bitch put tha dirty dishes up in tha sink n' came back over ta his muthafuckin ass. "Is you aiiight here, Danny?"

Dude looked at her guilelessly, a gin n juice mustache on his fuckin lip. "Uh-huh."

"No mo' shitty dreams?"

"No." Tony had come ta his ass once, one night while da thug was lyin up in bed, callin his name faintly n' from far away. Danny had squeezed his wild lil' fuckin eyes tightly shut until Tony had gone.

"Yo ass sure?"

"Yes, Mom."

Bitch seemed satisfied. "How's yo' hand?"

Dude flexed it fo' her n' shit. "All better."

Bitch nodded. Jack had taken tha nest under tha Pyrex bowl, full of frozen wasps, up ta tha incinerator up in back of tha shiznit shed n' burned dat shit. They had peeped no mo' wasps since yo. Dude had freestyled ta a lawyer up in Boulder, enclosin tha snapz of Danny's hand, n' tha lawyer had called back two minutes ago-that had put Jack up in a gangbangin' foul temper all afternoon. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da lawyer doubted if tha company dat had manufactured tha bug bomb could be sued successfully cuz there was only Jack ta reprazent dat dat schmoooove muthafucka had followed directions printed on tha package. Jack had axed tha lawyer if they couldn't purchase some others n' test dem fo' tha same defect. Yes, tha lawyer holla'd yo, but tha thangs up in dis biatch was highly doubtful even if all tha test bombs malfunctioned. Dude holla'd at Jack of a cold-ass lil case dat involved a extension ladder company n' a playa whoz ass had fucked up his back. Wendy had commiserated wit Jack yo, but privately dat freaky freaky biatch had just been glad dat Danny had gotten off as skankyly as dat schmoooove muthafucka had. Dat shiznit was dopest ta leave lawsuits ta playas whoz ass understood them, n' dat did not include tha Torrances fo' realz. And they had peeped no mo' wasps since.

"Go n' play, doc yo. Have fun."

But dat schmoooove muthafucka hadn't had fun. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude had wandered aimlessly round tha hotel, pokin tha fuck into tha maids' closets n' tha janitor's rooms, lookin fo' suttin' interesting, not findin it, a lil' small-ass pimp paddin along a thugged-out dark blue carpet woven wit twistin black lines yo. Dude had tried a room door from time ta time yo, but of course they was all locked. Da passkey was hangin down up in tha office, he knew where yo, but Daddy had holla'd at his ass da perved-out muthafucka shouldn't bust a nut on dis shiznit fo' realz. And da ruffneck didn't want to. Did be?

(Why is you here?)

There was not a god damn thang aimless bout it afta all yo. Dude had been drawn ta Room 217 by a morbid kind of curiositizzle yo. Dude remembered a rap Daddy had read ta his ass once when da thug was faded. That had been a long-ass time ago yo, but tha rap was just as vivid now as when Daddy had read it ta his muthafuckin ass. Mommy had scolded Daddy n' axed what tha fuck da thug was bustin, readin a three-year-old baby suttin' so horrible. Da name of tha rap was Bluebeard. That was clear up in his crazy-ass mind too, cuz dat schmoooove muthafucka had thought at first Daddy was sayin Bluebird, n' there was no bluebirdz up in tha story, or birdz of any kind fo' dat matter n' shiznit fo' realz. Actually tha rap was bout Bluebeard's hoe, a pimpin' lady dat had corn-colored afro like Mommy fo' realz. Afta Bluebeard hooked up her, they lived up in a funky-ass big-ass n' ominous castle dat was not unlike tha Overlook fo' realz. And every last muthafuckin dizzle Bluebeard went off ta work n' every last muthafuckin dizzle da thug would tell his thugged-out lil' pretty lil hoe not ta look up in a cold-ass lil certain room, although tha key ta dat room was hangin right on a hook, just like tha passkey was hangin on tha crib wall downstairs. Bluebeard's hoe had gotten mo' n' mo' curious bout tha locked room. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch tried ta peep all up in tha keyhole tha way Danny had tried ta look all up in Room 217's peephole wit similar unsatisfyin thangs up in dis biatch. There was even a picture of her gettin down on her knees n' tryin ta look under tha door yo, but tha crack wasn't wide enough cause I gots dem finger-lickin' chickens wit tha siz-auce. Da door swung wide and...

Da oldschool fairy tale book had depicted her discovery up in ghastly, gangbangin detail. Da image was burned on Danny's mind. Da severed headz of Bluebeard's seven previous wives was up in tha room, each one on its own pedestal, tha eyes turned up ta whites, tha grills unhinged n' gapin up in silent screams. Boy it's gettin hot, yes indeed it is. They was somehow balanced on necks ragged from tha broadsword's decapitatin swing, n' there was blood hustlin down tha pedestals.

Terrified, dat freaky freaky biatch had turned ta flee from tha room n' tha castle, only ta discover Bluebeard standin up in tha doorway, his shitty eyes blazing. "I holla'd at you not ta enta dis room," Bluebeard holla'd, unsheathang his sword. "Alas, up in yo' curiositizzle yo ass is like tha other seven, n' though I loved you dopest of all yo' endin shall be as was theirs. Prepare ta die, wretched biatch!"

It seemed vaguely ta Danny dat tha rap had shitty a aiiight endin yo, but dat had paled ta insignificizzle beside tha two dominant images: tha taunting, maddenin locked door wit some pimped out secret behind it, n' tha grisly secret itself, repeated mo' than half a thugged-out dozen times. Da locked door n' behind it tha heads, tha severed beads.

His hand reached up n' stroked tha room's doorknob, almost furtively yo. Dude had no clue how tha fuck long be had been here, standin hypnotized before tha bland gray locked door.

(And maybe three times I've thought I've peeped thangs... nasty thangs...)

But Mista Muthafuckin yo. Hallorann-Dick-had also holla'd da ruffneck didn't be thinkin dem thangs could hurt you, biatch. They was like freaky pictures up in a funky-ass book, dat was all fo' realz. And maybe da thug wouldn't peep anything. On tha other hand...

Dude plunged his fuckin left hand tha fuck into his thugged-out lil' pocket n' it came up holdin tha passkey. Well shiiiit, it had been there all along, of course.

Dude held it by tha square metal tab on tha end which had OFFICE printed on it up in Magic Marker n' shiznit yo. Dude twirled tha key on its chain, watchin it go round n' around. Afta nuff muthafuckin minutez of dis da perved-out muthafucka stopped n' slipped tha passkey tha fuck into tha lock. Well shiiiit, it slid up in smoothly, wit no hitch, as if it had wanted ta be there all along.

(I've thought I've peeped thangs... nasty thangs... promise me you won't go up in there.)

(I promise.)

And a promise was, of course, straight-up blingin. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Still, his curiositizzle itched at his ass as maddeningly as poison ivy up in a place yo ass isn't supposed ta scratch. But dat shiznit was a thugged-out dreadful kind of curiosity, tha kind dat make you peek all up in yo' fingers durin tha scariest partz of a gangbangin' freaky porno. What was beyond dat door would be no porno.

(I don't be thinkin dem thangs can hurt you, biatch... like freaky pictures up in a funky-ass book...)

Suddenly he reached up wit his fuckin left hand, not shizzle of what tha fuck dat shiznit was goin ta do until it had removed tha passkey n' stuffed it back tha fuck into his thugged-out lil' pocket yo. Dude stared all up in tha door a moment longer, blue-gray eyes wide, then turned quickly n' strutted back down tha corridor toward tha main hallway dat ran at right anglez ta tha corridor da thug was in.

Somethang made his ass pause there n' da thug wasn't shizzle what tha fuck fo' a moment. Then he remembered dat directly round dis corner, on tha way back ta tha stairs, there was one of dem old-fashioned fire extinguishers curled up against tha wall. Curled there like a thugged-out dozin snake.

They weren't chemical-type extinguishers at all, Daddy holla'd, although there was nuff muthafuckin of dem up in tha kitchen. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. These was tha forerunner of tha modern sprinkla systems. Boy it's gettin hot, yes indeed it is. Da long canvas hoses hooked directly tha fuck into tha Overlook's plumbin system, n' by turnin a single valve you could become a one-man fire department. Daddy holla'd dat tha chemical extinguishers, which sprayed foam or CO, was much mo' betta n' shit. Da chemicals smothered fires, took away tha oxygen they needed ta burn, while a high-heat spray might just spread tha flames around. Daddy holla'd dat Mista Muthafuckin Ullman should replace tha old-fashioned hoses right along wit tha old-fashioned boila yo, but Mista Muthafuckin Ullman would probably do neither cuz da thug was a CHEAP PRICK. Danny knew dat dis was one of da most thugged-out shitty epithets his wild lil' daddy could summon. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Dat shiznit was applied ta certain doctors, dentists, n' appliizzle repairmen, n' also ta tha head of his Gangsta Department at Stovington, whoz ass had disallowed a shitload of Daddy's book ordaz cuz da perved-out muthafucka holla'd tha books would put dem over budget. "Over budget, hell," dat schmoooove muthafucka had fumed ta Wendy-Danny had been listenin from his bedroom where da thug was supposed ta be asleep. "He's just savin tha last five hundred bucks fo' his dirty ass, tha CHEAP PRICK."

Danny looked round tha corner.

Da extinguisher was there, a gangbangin' fiat hose folded back a thugged-out dozen times on itself, tha red tank attached ta tha wall fo' realz. Above dat shiznit was a ax up in a glass case like a museum exhibit, wit white lyrics printed on a red background: IN CASE OF EMERGENCY, BREAK GLASS. Danny could read tha word EMERGENCY, which was also tha name of one of his wild lil' straight-up TV shows yo, but was unsure of tha rest. But da ruffneck didn't like tha way tha word was used up in connection wit dat long fiat hose. EMERGENCY was', fire, explosions, hoopty crashes, hospitizzles, sometimes dirtnap fo' realz. And da ruffneck didn't like tha way dat hose hung so blandly on tha wall. When da thug was alone, he always skittered past these extinguishers as fast as his schmoooove ass could. No particular reason. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Well shiiiit, it just felt betta ta go fast. Well shiiiit, it felt safer.

Now, ass thumpin loudly up in his chest, his schmoooove ass came round tha corner n' looked down tha hall past tha extinguisher ta tha stairs. Mommy was down there, chillin fo' realz. And if Daddy was back from his strutt, da thug would probably be chillin up in tha kitchen, smokin a sandwich n' readin a funky-ass book yo. Dude would just strutt right past dat oldschool extinguisher n' go downstairs.

Dude started toward it, movin closer ta tha far wall until his bangin right arm was brushin tha high-rollin' silk paper n' shit. Twenty steps away. Fifteen. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. A dozen.

When da thug was ten steps away, tha brass nozzle suddenly rolled off tha fat loop it had been lying

(chillin?)

on n' fell tha fuck ta tha hall carpet wit a thugged-out dull thump. Well shiiiit, it lay there, tha dark bore of its muzzle pointin at Danny yo. Dude stopped immediately, his shouldaz twitchin forward wit tha suddennizz of his scare yo. His blood thumped thickly up in his wild lil' fuckin ears n' templez yo. His grill had gone dry n' sour, his handz curled tha fuck into fists, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. Yet tha nozzle of tha hose only lay there, its brass casin glowin mellowly, a loop of flat canvas leadin back up ta tha red-painted frame bolted ta tha wall.

So it had fallen off, so what, biatch? Dat shiznit was only a gangbangin' fire extinguisher, not a god damn thang else. Dat shiznit was wack ta be thinkin dat it looked like some poison snake from "Wide Ghetto of Animals" dat had heard his ass n' woken up. Even if tha stitched canvas did look a lil bit like scalez yo. Dude would just step over it n' go down tha hall ta tha stairs, struttin a lil bit fast, maybe, ta make shizzle it didn't snap up afta his ass n' curl round his wild lil' foot...

Dude wiped his fuckin lips wit his fuckin left hand, up in unconscious imitation of his wild lil' father, n' took a step forward. No movement from tha hose fo' realz. Another step. Nothing. There, peep how tha fuck wack yo ass is, biatch? Yo ass gots all hit dat shiznit up thankin bout dat dumb room n' dat dumb Bluebeard rap n' dat hose was probably locked n loaded ta fall off fo' tha last five years. That's all.

Danny stared all up in tha hose on tha floor n' thought of wasps.

Eight steps away, tha nozzle of tha hose gleamed peacefully at his ass from tha rug as if ta say: Don't worry. I'm just a hose, that's all fo' realz. And even if dat isn't all, what tha fuck I do ta you won't be much worse than a funky-ass bee sting. Or a wasp sting. What would I wanna do ta a sick lil pimp like you, biatch... except bite... n' bite... n' bite?

Danny took another step, n' another n' shiznit yo. His breath was dry n' harsh up in his cold-ass throat. Panic was close now yo. Dude fuckin started ta wish tha hose would move, then at last be would know, da thug would be shizzle yo. Dude took another step n' now da thug was within strikin distance. But it's not goin ta strike at you, tha pimpin' muthafucka thought hysterically yo. How tha fuck can it strike at you, bite at you, when it's just a hose?

Maybe it's full of wasps.

His internal temperature plummeted ta ten below zero yo. Dude stared all up in tha black bore up in tha centa of tha nozzle, nearly hypnotized. Maybe dat shiznit was full of wasps, secret wasps, they brown bodies bloated wit poison, so full of autumn poison dat it dripped from they stingers up in clear dropz of fluid.

Suddenly he knew dat da thug was nearly frozen wit terror; if da ruffneck did not make his wild lil' feet go now, they would become locked ta tha carpet n' da thug would stay here, starin all up in tha black hole up in tha centa of tha brass nozzle like a funky-ass bird starin at a snake, da thug would stay here until his fuckin lil' daddy found his ass n' then what tha fuck would happen?

With a high moan, he made his dirty ass run. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. As he reached tha hose, some trick of tha light made tha nozzle seem ta move, ta revolve as if ta strike, n' he leaped high up in tha air above it; up in his thugged-out lil' panicky state it seemed dat his hairy-ass legs pushed his ass nearly all tha way ta tha ceiling, dat his schmoooove ass could feel tha stiff back hairs dat formed his cowlick brushin tha hallway's plasta ceiling, although lata he knew dat couldn't done been so.

Dude came down on tha other side of tha hose n' ran, n' suddenly dat schmoooove muthafucka heard it behind him, comin fo' him, tha soft dry whicker of dat brass snake's head as it slithered rapidly along tha carpet afta his ass like a rattlesnake movin swiftly all up in a thugged-out dry field of grass. Dat shiznit was comin fo' him, n' suddenly tha stairs seemed straight-up far away; they seemed ta retreat a hustlin step tha fuck into tha distizzle fo' each hustlin step tha pimpin' muthafucka took toward dem wild-ass muthafuckas.

Daddy dawwwwg! tha pimpin' muthafucka tried ta scream yo, but his closed throat would not allow a word ta pass yo. Dude was on his own. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Behind his ass tha sound grew louder, tha dry slidin sound of tha snake, slippin swiftly over tha carpet's dry hacklez fo' realz. At his heels now, like risin up wit tha clear poison dribblin from its brass snout.

Danny reached tha stairs n' had ta pinwheel his thugged-out arms crazily fo' balance. For one moment it seemed shizzle dat da thug would cartwheel over n' go head-for-heels ta tha bottom.

Dude threw a glizzle back over his shoulder.

Da hose had not moved. Well shiiiit, it lay as it had lain, one loop off tha frame, tha brass nozzle on tha hall floor, tha nozzle pointin disinterestedly away from his muthafuckin ass. Yo ass see, stupid, biatch? his thugged-out lil' punk-ass berated his dirty ass. Yo ass made all dat shiznit up, scaredy-cat. Dat shiznit was all yo' imagination, scaredy-cat, scaredy-cat.

Dude clung ta tha stairway railing, his hairy-ass legs tremblin up in erection.

(It never chased you)

his mind holla'd at him, n' seized on dat thought, n' played it back.

(never chased you, never chased you, never did, never did)

Dat shiznit was not a god damn thang ta be afraid of. Why, his schmoooove ass could go back n' put dat hose right tha fuck into its frame, if da thug wanted ta yo. Dude could yo, but da ruffneck didn't be thinkin da thug would. Because what tha fuck if it had chased his ass n' had gone back when it saw dat it couldn't... quite... catch him?

Da hose lay on tha carpet, almost seemin ta ask his ass if da thug wanna come back n' try again.

Panting, Danny ran downstairs.

Chapta 20. Talkin ta Mista Muthafuckin Ullman
Da Sidewinder Public Library was a small, retirin buildin one block down from tha town's bidnizz area. Dat shiznit was a modest, vine-covered building, n' tha wide concrete strutt up ta tha door was lined wit tha corpsez of last summer's flowers. On tha lawn was a big-ass bronze statue of a Civil Battle general Jack had never heard of, although dat schmoooove muthafucka had been suttin' of a Civil Battle buff up in his cold-ass teenage years.

Da newspaper filez was kept downstairs. They consisted of tha Sidewinder Gazette dat had gone bust up in 1963, tha Estes Park everyday, n' tha Boulder Camera. No Denver papers at all.

Sighing, Jack settled fo' tha Camera.

When tha filez reached 1965, tha actual newspapers was replaced by spoolz of microfilm ("A federal grant," tha librarian holla'd at his ass brightly. "Our thugged-out asses hope ta do 1958 ta '64 when tha next check comes all up in yo, but they're so slow, aren't they, biatch? Yo ass is ghon be careful, won't yo slick ass, biatch? I just know you will. Call if you need mah dirty ass."). Da only readin machine shitty a lens dat had somehow gotten warped, n' by tha time Wendy put her hand on his shoulder some forty-five minutes afta dat schmoooove muthafucka had switched from tha actual papers, dat schmoooove muthafucka had a juicy thumper of a headache.

"Danny's up in tha park," her big-ass booty holla'd, "but I don't want his ass outside too long yo. How tha fuck much longer do you be thinkin you'll be?"

"Ten minutes," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. Actually dat schmoooove muthafucka had traced down tha last of tha Overlook's fascinatin history-the muthafuckin years between tha gangland blastin n' tha takeover by Stuart Ullman amp; Co. But he felt tha same reticence bout spittin some lyrics ta Wendy.

"What is you up to, anyway?" she asked. Biatch ruffed his afro as her big-ass booty holla'd it yo, but her voice was only half-teasing.

"Lookin up some oldschool Overlook history," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd.

"Any particular reason?"

"No,

(and why tha hell is you so interested anyway?)

just curiosity."

"Find anythang interesting?"

"Not much," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, havin ta strive ta keep his voice pleasant now, nahmeean, biatch? Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch was prying, just tha way dat freaky freaky biatch had always pried n' poked at his ass when they had been at Stovington n' Danny was still a cold-ass lil crib-infant. Where is you going, Jack, biatch? When will you be back, biatch? How tha fuck much scrilla do you have wit yo slick ass, biatch? Is you goin ta take tha car, biatch? Is Al goin ta be wit yo slick ass, biatch? Will one of y'all stay sober, biatch? On n' on. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch had, pardon tha expression, driven his ass ta drink. Maybe dat hadn't been tha only reason yo, but by Christ let's tell tha real deal here n' admit dat shiznit was one of dem wild-ass muthafuckas. Nag n' nag n' nag until you wanted ta clout her one just ta shut her up n' stop the

(Where, biatch? When, biatch? How, biatch? Is yo slick ass, biatch? Will yo slick ass?)

endless flow of thangs. Well shiiiit, it could hit you wit a real

(headache, biatch? hangover?)

headache. Da reader n' shit. Da damned reader wit its distorted print. That was why dat schmoooove muthafucka had such a playaaaaaa of a headache.

"Jack, is you all right, biatch? Yo ass look pale-"

Dude snapped his head away from her fingers. "I be fine!"

Bitch recoiled from his bangin' eyes n' tried on a smile dat was a size too small. "Well... if yo ass is... I'll just go n' wait up in tha park wit Danny..." Biatch was startin away now, her smile dissolvin tha fuck into a funky-ass bewildered expression of hurt.

Dude called ta her: "Wendy?"

Bitch looked back from tha foot of tha stairs. "What, Jack?"

Dude gots up n' went over ta her n' shit. "I'm sorry, babe. I guess I'm straight-up not all right. That machine... tha lens is distorted. This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. I've gots a straight-up shitty headache. Got any aspirin?"

"Sure." Biatch pawed up in her purse n' came up wit a tin of Anacin. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. "Yo ass keep dem wild-ass muthafuckas."

Dude took tha tin. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. "No Excedrin?" Dude saw tha lil' small-ass recoil on her grill n' understood. I be fly as a gangbangin' falcon, soarin all up in tha sky dawwwwg! Well shiiiit, it had been a funky-ass bitta sort of joke between dem at first, before tha drankin had gotten too shitty fo' jokes yo. Dude had fronted dat Excedrin was tha only nonprescription sticky-icky-icky eva invented dat could stop a hangover dead up in its tracks fo' realz. Absolutely tha only one yo. Dude had begun ta be thinkin of his crazy-ass morning-afta thumpers as Excedrin Headache Number Vat 69.

"No Excedrin," her big-ass booty holla'd. "Sorry."

"That's all gravy," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, "these'll do just fine." But of course they wouldn't, n' her big-ass booty should have known it, like a muthafucka fo' realz. At times dat thugged-out biiiatch could be tha stupidest biiiatch...

"Want some water?" she axed brightly.

(No I just want you ta GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!).

"I'll git some all up in tha drankin fountain when I go up. Thanks."

"Okay." Biatch started up tha stairs, phat hairy-ass legs movin gracefully under a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass short tan wool skirt. "We'll be up in tha park."

"Right." Dude slipped tha tin of Anacin absently tha fuck into his thugged-out lil' pocket, went back ta tha reader, n' turned it off. When da thug was shizzle dat biiiiatch was gone, da thug went upstairs his dirty ass. Dogg yo, but dat shiznit was a lousy headache. If you was goin ta git a visegripper like dis one, you ought ta at least be allowed tha pleasure of all dem dranks ta balizzle it off.

Dude tried ta put tha thought from his crazy-ass mind, mo' ill tempered than eva n' shiznit yo. Dude went ta tha main desk, fingerin a matchbook cover wit a telephone number on dat shit.

"Ma'am, do you gotz a pay telephone?"

"Fuck dat shit, sir yo, but you can use mine if it's local."

"It's long-distance, sorry bout dat bullshit."

"Well then, I guess tha sticky-icky-ickystore would be yo' dopest bet. They gotz a funky-ass booth."

"Thanks."

Dude went up n' down tha strutt, past tha anonymous Civil Battle general. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack yo. Dude fuckin started ta strutt toward tha bidnizz block, handz stuffed up in his thugged-out lil' pockets, head thuddin like a leaden bell. Da sky was also leaden; dat shiznit was November 7, n' wit tha freshly smoked up month tha drizzle had become threatening. There had been a fuckin shitload of snow flurries. Put ya muthafuckin choppers up if ya feel dis! There had been snow up in October too yo, but dat had melted. This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. Da freshly smoked up flurries had stayed, a light frostin over every last muthafuckin thang-it sparkled up in tha sunlight like fine crystal. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack. But there had been no sunlight todizzle, n' even as he reached tha sticky-icky-ickystore it fuckin started ta spit snow again.

Da beeper booth was all up in tha back of tha building, n' da thug was halfway down a aisle of patent medicines, jinglin his chizzle up in his thugged-out lil' pocket, when his wild lil' fuckin eyes fell tha fuck on tha white boxes wit they chronic print yo. Dude took one of dem ta tha cheddaier, paid, n' went back ta tha telephone booth yo. Dude pulled tha door closed, put his chizzle n' matchbook cover on tha counter, n' dialed O.

"Yo crazy-ass call, please?"

"Fort Lauderdale, Florida, operator." Dude gave her tha number there n' tha number up in tha booth. When dat dunkadelic hoe holla'd at his ass it would be a thugged-out dollar ninety fo' tha straight-up original gangsta three minutes, da ruffneck dropped eight quartas tha fuck into tha slot, wincin each time tha bell bonged up in his wild lil' fuckin ear.

Then, left up in limbo wit only tha faraway clickings n' gabblingz of connection-making, tha pimpin' muthafucka took tha green-forty of Excedrin outta its box, pried up tha white cap, n' dropped tha wad of cotton battin ta tha floor of tha booth. Cradling, tha beeper receiver between his wild lil' fuckin ear n' shoulder, da perved-out muthafucka shook up three of tha white tablets n' lined dem up on tha counta beside his bangin remainin chizzle yo. Dude recapped tha forty n' put it up in his thugged-out lil' pocket.

At tha other end, tha beeper was picked up on tha straight-up original gangsta ring.

"Surf-Sand Resort, how tha fuck may our crazy asses help yo slick ass?" tha perky biatch voice asked.

"I'd like ta drop a rhyme wit tha manager, please."

"Do you mean Mista Muthafuckin Trent or-"

"I mean Mista Muthafuckin Ullman."

"I believe Mista Muthafuckin Ullman be jumpin' off tha hook yo, but if you wanna me ta check-"

"I would. Tell his ass it's Jack Torrizzle callin from Colorado."

"One moment, please." Biatch put his ass on hold.

Jack's dislike fo' dat skanky, self-important lil prick Ullman came floodin back yo. Dude took one of tha Excedrins from tha counter, regarded it fo' a moment, then put it tha fuck into his crazy-ass grill n' fuckin started ta chew it, slowly n' wit relish. Da taste flooded back like memory, makin his saliva squirt up in mingled pleasure n' unhappinizz fo' realz. A dry, bitta taste yo, but a cold-ass lil compellin one yo. Dude swallowed wit a grimace. Chewin aspirin had been a g-thang wit his ass up in his fuckin lil' drankin days; dat schmoooove muthafucka hadn't done it at all since then. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. But when yo' headache was shitty enough, a hangover headache or one like dis one, chewin dem seemed ta make dem git ta work quicker n' shiznit yo. Dude had read somewhere dat chewin aspirin could become addictive. Where had he read that, anyway, biatch? Frowning, tha pimpin' muthafucka tried ta think fo' realz. And then Ullman came on tha line.

"Torrance, biatch? What's tha shit?"

"No shit," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. "Da boiler's all gravy n' I haven't even gotten round ta murderin mah hoe yet. I'm savin dat until afta tha holidays, when thangs git dull."

"Straight-up funky. Why is you calling, biatch? I'm a funky-ass busy-"

"Busy dude, fo'sho, I KNOW dis shit. I'm callin bout some thangs dat you didn't tell me durin yo' history of tha Overlooks pimped out n' honorable past. Like how tha fuck Horace Derwent sold it ta a funky-ass bunch of Las Vegas sharpies whoz ass dealt it all up in all kindsa muthafuckin dummy corporations dat not even tha IRS knew whoz ass straight-up owned it fo' realz. Bout how tha fuck they waited until tha time was right n' then turned it tha fuck into a playground fo' Mafia bigwigs, n' bout how tha fuck it had ta be shut down up in 1966 when one of dem gots a lil bit dead as fuckin fried chicken. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. Along wit his bodyguards, whoz ass was standin outside tha door ta tha Presidential Suite. Great place, tha Overlook's Presidential Suite. Wilson, Harding, Roosevelt, Nixon, n' Vito tha Chopper, right?"

There was a moment of surprised silence on tha other end of tha line, n' then Ullman holla'd on tha fuckin' down-lowly: "I don't peep how tha fuck dat can have any bearin on yo' thang, Mista Muthafuckin Torrance. It-"

"Da dopest part happened afta Gienelli was shot, though, don't you think, biatch? Two mo' quick shuffles, now you peep it n' now you don't, n' then tha Overlook is suddenly owned by a private playa hater, a biatch named Sylvia Hustla... whoz ass just happened ta be Sylvia Hunta Derwent from 1942 ta 1948."

"Yo crazy-ass three minutes is up," tha operator holla'd. "Signal when through."

"My fuckin dear Mista Muthafuckin Torrance, all of dis is hood knowledge... n' ancient history."

"It formed no part of mah knowledge," Jack holla'd. "I doubt if nuff other playas know it, either n' shit. Not all of dat shit. Thev remember tha Gienelli blasting, maybe yo, but I doubt if anybody has put together all tha wondrous n' strange shufflez tha Overlook has been all up in since 1945 fo' realz. And it always seems like Derwent or a Derwent associate comes up wit tha door prize. What was Sylvia Hunta hustlin up there up in '67 n' '68, Mista Muthafuckin Ullman, biatch? Dat shiznit was a whorehouse, wasn't it?"

"Torrance!" His shock crackled across two thousand milez of telephone cable without losin a thang.

Smiling, Jack popped another Excedrin tha fuck into his crazy-ass grill n' chewed dat shit.

"Bitch sold up afta a rather well known U. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. S. senator took a dirt nap of a ass battle up there, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. There was rumors dat da thug was found naked except fo' black nylon stockings n' a garta belt n' a pair of high-heeled pumps. Patent-leather pumps, as a matta of fact."

"That's a vicious, damnable lie!" Ullman cried.

"Is it?" Jack asked. Dude was beginnin ta feel mo' betta n' shit. Da headache was drainin away yo. Dude took tha last Excedrin n' chewed it up, trippin' off tha bitter, powdery taste as tha tablet shredded up in his crazy-ass grill.

"Dat shiznit was a straight-up fucked up occurrence," Ullman holla'd. "Now what tha fuck is tha point, Torrance, biatch? If you're plannin ta write some skanky smear article... if dis is some illconceived, wack blackmail idea..."

"Nothang of tha sort," Jack holla'd. "I called cuz I didn't be thinkin you played square wit mah dirty ass fo' realz. And cuz-"

"Didn't play square?" Ullman cried. "My fuckin God, did you be thinkin I was goin ta share a big-ass pile of dirty laundry wit tha hotel's caretaker, biatch? Dum diddy-dum, here I come biaaatch! Who tha fuck up in heaven's name do you be thinkin yo ass is, biatch? And how tha fuck could dem oldschool stories possibly affect you anyway, biatch? Or do you be thinkin there be pimps paradin up n' down tha hallz of tha westside win bustin bedsheets n' bustin up like a biatch 'Woe!'?"

"Fuck dat shit, I don't be thinkin there be any pimps. But you raked up a shitload of mah underground history before you gave me tha thang. Yo ass had mah crazy ass on tha carpet, quizzin me bout mah mobilitizzle ta take care of yo' hotel like a lil pimp up in front of tha mackdaddy's desk fo' peein up in tha coatroom. Yo ass embarrassed mah dirty ass."

"I just do not believe yo' cheek, yo' bloody damned impertinence," Ullman holla'd. Dude sounded as if he might be choking. "I'd like ta sack you, biatch fo' realz. And like I will."

"I be thinkin Al Shockley might object. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Strenuously."

"And I be thinkin you may have finally overestimated Mista Muthafuckin Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Shockley's commitment ta you, Mista Muthafuckin Torrance."

For a moment Jack's headache came back up in all its thuddin glory, n' his schmoooove ass closed his wild lil' fuckin eyes against tha pain. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. As if from a gangbangin' finger-lickin' distizzle away dat schmoooove muthafucka heard his dirty ass ask: "Dum diddy-dum, here I come biaaatch! Who tha fuck owns tha Overlook now, biatch? Is it still Derwent Enterprises, biatch? Or is you too smallfry ta know?"

"I be thinkin dat will do, Mista Muthafuckin Torrance. Yo ass be a hommie of tha hotel, no different from a funky-ass busboy or a kitchen pot scrubber n' shit. I have no intention of-"

"Okay, I'll write Al," Jack holla'd. "He'll know; afta all, he's on tha Board of Directors fo' realz. And I might just add a lil P. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. S. ta tha effect that-"

"Derwent don't own dat shit."

"What, biatch? I couldn't like make dat out."

"I holla'd Derwent don't own dat shit. Da stockholdaz is all Easterners. Yo crazy-ass playa Mista Muthafuckin Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Shockley owns tha phattest block of stock his dirty ass, betta than thirtyfive per cent. Yo ass would know betta than I if dat schmoooove muthafucka has any tizzles ta Derwent."

"Dum diddy-dum, here I come biaaatch! Who tha fuck else?"

"I have no intention of divulgin tha namez of tha other stockholdaz ta you, Mista Muthafuckin Torrance. I intend ta brang dis whole matta ta tha attention of-"

"One other question."

"I be under no obligation ta you, biatch."

"Most of tha Overlook's history-savory n' unsavory alike-I found up in a scrapbook dat was up in tha cellar. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Big thang wit white leather covers. Gold thread fo' binding. Do you have any scam whose scrapbook dat might be?"

"None at all."

"Is it possible it could have belonged ta Grady, biatch? Da caretaker whoz ass capped his dirty ass?"

"Mista Muthafuckin Torrance," Ullman holla'd up in tonez of deepest frost, "I be by no means shizzle dat Mista Muthafuckin Grady could read, let ridin' solo dig up tha rotten applez you done been wastin mah time with."

"I'm thankin of freestylin a funky-ass book bout tha Overlook Hotel.. n' you KNOWS if I straight-up gots all up in it, tha balla of tha scrapbook wanna have a acknowledgment all up in tha front."

"I be thinkin freestylin a funky-ass book bout tha Overlook would be straight-up unwise," Ullman holla'd. "Especially a funky-ass book done from your... uh, point of view."

"Yo crazy-ass opinion don't surprise mah dirty ass." His headache was all gone now, nahmeean, biatch? There had been dat one flash of pain, n' dat was all yo. His mind felt sharp n' accurate, all tha way down ta millimeters. Dat shiznit was tha way he probably felt only when tha freestylin was goin mad well or when dat schmoooove muthafucka had a threedrink buzz on. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. That was another thang dat schmoooove muthafucka had forgotten bout Excedrin; da ruffneck didn't know if it hit dat shiznit fo' others yo, but fo' his ass crunchin three tablets was like a instant high.

Now da perved-out muthafucka holla'd: "What you'd like is some sort of commissioned guidebook dat you could hand up free ta tha guests when they checked in. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Somethang wit a shitload of glossy photoz of tha mountains at sunrise n' sunset n' a lemon-meringue text ta go wit it fo' realz. Also a section on tha colorful playas whoz ass have stayed there, of course excludin tha straight-up colorful ones like Gienelli n' his wild lil' playas."

"If I felt I could fire you n' be a hundred per cent certain of mah own thang instead of just ninety-five per cent," UIIman holla'd up in clipped, strangled tones, "I would fire you right dis minute, over tha telephone. But since I feel dat five per cent of uncertainty, I intend ta booty-call Mista Muthafuckin Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Shockley tha moment you're off tha line... which is ghon be soon, or so I devoutly hope."

Jack holla'd, "There isn't goin ta be anythang up in tha book dat isn't true, you know. There's no need ta dress it up."

(Why is you baitin him, biatch? Do you wanna be fired?)

"I don't care if Chapta Five be bout tha Pimp of Rome screwin tha shade of tha Virgin Mary," Ullman holla'd, his voice rising. "I want you outta mah hotel!"

"It's not yo' hotel!" Jack screamed, n' slammed tha receiver tha fuck into its cradle.

Dude sat on tha stool breathang hard, a lil scared now,

(a lil, biatch? hell, a lot)

wonderin why up in tha name of Dogg dat schmoooove muthafucka had called Ullman up in tha straight-up original gangsta place.

(Yo ass lost yo' temper again, Jack.)

Yes yes y'all. Yes, dat schmoooove muthafucka had. No sense tryin ta deny it fo' realz. And tha bell of it was, dat schmoooove muthafucka had no clue how tha fuck much influence dat skanky lil prick had over Al, no mo' than he knew how tha fuck much bullshit Al would take from his ass up in tha name of auld lang syne. If Ullman was as phat as his schmoooove ass fronted ta be, n' if he gave Al a he-goes-or-I-go ultimatum, might not Al be forced ta take it, biatch? Dude closed his wild lil' fuckin eyes n' tried ta imagine spittin some lyrics ta Wendy. Guess what, babe, biatch? I lost another thang. This time I had ta go all up in two thousand milez of Bell Telephone cable ta find one of mah thugs ta punch up yo, but I managed dat shit.

Dude opened his wild lil' fuckin eyes n' wiped his crazy-ass grill wit his handkerchizzle yo. Dude wanted a thugged-out drink yo. Hell, he needed one. There was a cold-ass lil cafe just down tha street, surely dat schmoooove muthafucka had time fo' a quick brew on his way up ta tha park, just one ta lay tha dust...

Dude clenched his handz together helplessly.

Da question recurred: Why had his schmoooove ass called Ullman up in tha straight-up original gangsta place, biatch? Da number of tha Surf-Sand up in Lauderdale had been freestyled up in a lil' small-ass notebook by tha beeper n' tha CB radio up in tha office-plumbers' numbers, carpenters, glaziers, electricians, others. Jack shitty copied it onto tha matchbook cover shortly afta gettin outta bed, tha scam of callin Ullman fullblown n' gleeful up in his crazy-ass mind. But ta what tha fuck purpose, biatch? Once, durin tha drankin phase, Wendy had accused his ass of desirin his own destruction but not possessin tha necessary moral fiber ta support a gangbangin' full-blown dirtnapwish. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So he manufactured ways up in which other playas could do it, loppin a piece at a time off his dirty ass n' they crew. Could it be true, biatch? Was be afraid somewhere inside dat tha Overlook might be just what tha fuck he needed ta finish his thugged-out lil' play n' generally collect tip his shiznit n' git it together, biatch? Was his thugged-out lil' punk-ass blowin tha whistle on his dirty ass, biatch? Please Dogg no, don't let it be dat way. Please.

Dude closed his wild lil' fuckin eyes n' a image immediately arose on tha darkened screen of his crazy-ass muthafuckin inner lids: stickin his hand all up in dat hole up in tha shinglez ta pull up tha rotted flashing, tha sudden needlin sting, his own agonized, startled cry up in tha still n' unheedin air: Oh you goddamn fuckin lil hustla of a funky-ass biiiatch...

Replaced wit a image two muthafuckin years earlier, his dirty ass stumblin tha fuck into tha doggy den at three up in tha morning, faded, fallin over a table n' sprawlin full-length on tha floor, cursing, wakin Wendy up on tha couch. Wendy turnin on tha light, seein his threadz ripped n' smeared from some cloudy parking-lot scuffle dat had occurred at a vaguely remembered honky-tonk just over tha New Hampshizzle border minutes before, crusted blood under his nose, now lookin up at his hoe, blinkin stupidly up in tha light like a mole up in tha sunshine, n' Wendy sayin dully, Yo ass lil hustla of a funky-ass biiiatch, you woke Danny up. If you don't care bout yo ass, can't you care a lil bit bout us, biatch? Oh, why do I even bother poppin' off ta yo slick ass?

Da telephone rang, makin his ass jump yo. Dude snatched it off tha cradle, illogically shizzle it must be either Ullman or Al Shockley. "What?" his thugged-out lil' punk-ass barked.

"Yo crazy-ass overtime, sir. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Three dollars n' fifty cents."

"I'll gotta break some ones," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. "Wait a minute."

Dude put tha beeper on tha shelf, deposited his fuckin last six quarters, then went up ta tha cheddaier ta git mo' n' mo' n' mo' yo. Dude performed tha transaction automatically, his crazy-ass mind hustlin up in a single closed circle like a squirrel on a exercise wheel.

Why had his schmoooove ass called Ullman?

Because Ullman had embarrassed him, biatch? Dude had been embarrassed before, n' by real masters-the Grand Master, of course, bein his dirty ass. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Simply ta crow all up in tha dude, expose his hypocrisy, biatch? Jack didn't be thinkin da thug was dat petty yo. His mind tried ta seize on tha scrapbook as a valid reason yo, but dat wouldn't hold wata either n' shit. Da chancez of Ullman knowin whoz ass tha balla was was no mo' than two up in a thousand. At tha rap battle, dat schmoooove muthafucka had treated tha cellar as another ghetto-a nasty underdeveloped one at dis shit. If dat schmoooove muthafucka had straight-up wanted ta know, da thug would have called Watson, whose winta number was also up in tha crib notebook. Even Watson would not done been a shizzle thang but surer than Ullman.

And spittin some lyrics ta his ass bout tha book idea, dat had been another wack thang. Incredibly fuckin wack. Besides jeopardizin his thang, his schmoooove ass could be closin off wide channelz of shiznit once Ullman called round n' holla'd at playas ta beware of New Englandaz bearin thangs bout tha Overlook Hotel yo. Dude could have done his bangin researches on tha fuckin' down-lowly, mailin off polite letters, like even arrangin some rap battlez up in tha spring... n' then laughed up his sleeve at Ullman's rage when tha book came up n' da thug was safely away-Da Maxed Lyricist Strikes Again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Instead dat schmoooove muthafucka had made dat damned senseless call, lost his cold-ass temper, antagonized Ullman, n' brought up all of tha hotel manager's Little Caesar tendencies. Put ya muthafuckin choppers up if ya feel dis! Why, biatch? If it wasn't a effort ta git his dirty ass thrown outta tha phat thang Al had snagged fo' him, then what tha fuck was it?

Dude deposited tha rest of tha scrilla up in tha slots n' hung up tha phone. Well shiiiit, it straight-up was tha senseless kind of thang he might have done if dat schmoooove muthafucka had been faded. But dat schmoooove muthafucka had been sober; dead cold sober.

Walkin outta tha sticky-icky-ickystore be crunched another Excedrin tha fuck into his crazy-ass grill, grimacin yet relishin tha bitta taste.

On tha strutt outside he kicked it wit Wendy n' Danny.

"Yo, we was just comin afta you," Wendy holla'd. "Snowing, don't you know."

Jack blinked up. "So it is." Dat shiznit was snowin hard. Sidewinder's main street was already heavily powdered, tha centa line obscured. Danny had his head tilted up ta tha white sky, his crazy-ass grill open n' his cold-ass tongue up ta catch a shitload of tha fat flakes driftin down.

"Do you be thinkin dis is it?" Wendy asked.

Jack shrugged. "I don't know. I was hopin fo' another week or two of grace. We still might git dat shit."

Grace, dat was dat shit.

(I'm sorry, Al. Grace, yo' mercy. For yo' mercy. One mo' chance. I be heartily sorry-)

How tha fuck nuff times, over how tha fuck nuff years, had he-a grown man-axed fo' tha mercy of another chance, biatch? Dude was suddenly so sick of his dirty ass, so revolted, dat his schmoooove ass could have groaned aloud.

"How's yo' headache?" she asked, studyin his ass closely.

Dude put a arm round her n' hugged her tight. "Better n' shit. Come on, you two, let's bounce back ta tha doggy den while we still can."

They strutted back ta where tha hotel truck was slantparked against tha curb, Jack up in tha middle, his fuckin left arm round Wendy's shoulders, his bangin right hand holdin Danny's hand. Dude had called it home fo' tha last time, fo' betta or worse.

As he gots behind tha truck's wheel it occurred ta his ass dat while da thug was fascinated by tha Overlook, da ruffneck didn't much like it yo. Dude wasn't shizzle dat shiznit was phat fo' either his hoe or his fuckin lil hustla or his dirty ass. Maybe dat was why dat schmoooove muthafucka had called Ullman.

To be fired while there was still time.

Dude backed tha truck outta its parkin space n' headed dem outta hood n' up tha fuck into tha mountains.

Chapta 21. Night Thoughts
Dat shiznit was ten o'clock. Their quartas was filled wit counterfeit chill.

Jack lay on his side facin tha wall, eyes open, listenin ta Wendy's slow n' regular breathing. Da taste of dissolved aspirin was still on his cold-ass tongue, makin it feel rough n' slightly numb fo' realz. Al Shockley had called at quarta of six, quarta of eight back East. Wendy had been downstairs wit Danny, chillin up in front of tha lobby fireplace n' reading.

"Person ta person," tha operator holla'd, "for Mista Muthafuckin Jack Torrance."

"Speaking." Dude had switched tha beeper ta his bangin right hand, had dug his handkerchizzle outta his back pocket wit his fuckin left, n' had wiped his cold-ass tender lips wit dat shit. Then he lit a cold-ass lil blunt.

Al's voice then, phat up in his wild lil' fuckin ear: "Jacky-boy, what tha fuck up in tha name of Dogg is you up to?"

"Yea muthafucka, Al." Dude snuffed tha blunt n' groped fo' tha Excedrin bottle.

"What's goin on, Jack, biatch? I gots dis weird beeper call from Stuart Ullman dis afternoon. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. And when Stu Ullman calls long-distizzle outta his own pocket, you know tha shiznit has hit tha fan."

"Ullman has not a god damn thang ta worry about, Al. Neither do you, biatch."

"What exactly is tha not a god damn thang we aint gots ta worry about, biatch? Stu juiced it up sound like a cold-ass lil cross between blackmail n' a Nationizzle Enquirer feature on tha Overlook. Talk ta me, boy."

"I wanted ta poke his ass a lil," Jack holla'd. "When I came up here ta be rap battleed, dat schmoooove muthafucka had ta drag up all mah dirty laundry. Drankin problem. Lost yo' last thang fo' rackin over a hustla. Wonder if you're tha right playa fo' all dis bullshit. Et cetera. Da thang dat bugged mah crazy ass was dat da thug was brangin all dis up cuz he loved tha goddamn hotel all muthafuckin day. It make me wanna hollar playa! Da dope Overlook. Da traditionizzle Overlook. Da bloody sacred Overlook. Well, I found a scrapbook up in tha basement. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Some Muthafucka had put together all tha less savory aspectz of Ullman's cathedral, n' it looked ta me like a lil black mass had been goin on afta hours."

"I hope that's metaphorical, Jack." Al's voice sounded frighteningly cold.

"It is. But I did smoke up-"

"I know tha hotel's history."

Jack ran a hand all up in his hair. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. "So I called his ass up n' poked his ass wit dat shit. I admit it wasn't straight-up bright, n' I shizzle wouldn't do it again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. End of story."

"Stu say you're plannin ta do a lil dirty-laundry-airin yo ass."

"Stu be a asshole!" his thugged-out lil' punk-ass barked tha fuck into tha phone. "I holla'd at his ass I had a scam of freestylin bout tha Overlook, yes. I do. I be thinkin dis place forms a index of tha whole post-Ghetto Battle Pt II Gangsta character n' shit. That soundz like a inflated claim, stated so baldly... I know it do... but it's all here, Al! My fuckin God, it could be a pimped out book. But it's far up in tha future, I can promise you that, I've gots mo' on mah plate right now than I can eat, and-"

"Jack, that's not phat enough."

Dude found his dirty ass gapin all up in tha black receiver of tha phone, unable ta believe what tha fuck dat schmoooove muthafucka had surely heard. "What, biatch? Al, did you say-?"

"I holla'd what tha fuck I holla'd. How tha fuck long is far up in tha future, Jack, biatch? For you it may be two years, maybe five. For me it's thirty or forty, cuz I expect ta be associated wit tha Overlook fo' a long-ass time. Da thought of y'all bustin some sort of a scum-job on mah hotel n' passin it off as a pimped out piece of Gangsta writing, dat make me sick."

Jack was speechless.

"I tried ta help you, Jacky-boy. Us thugs went all up in tha war together, n' I thought I owed you some help. Yo ass remember tha war?"

"I remember it," he muttered yo, but tha coalz of resentment had begun ta glow round his thugged-out ass. First Ullman, then Wendy, now Al. What was this, biatch? Nationizzle Let's Pick Jack Torrizzle Apart Week, biatch? Dude clamped his fuckin lips mo' tightly together, reached fo' his blunts, n' knocked dem off onto tha floor yo. Had he eva was horny bout dis skanky prick poppin' off ta his ass from his crazy-ass mahogany-lined den up in Vermont, biatch? Had he straight-up?

"Before you hit dat Hatfield kid," Al was saying, "I had talked tha Board outta lettin you go n' even had dem swung round ta thankin bout tenure. Yo ass blew dat one fo' yo ass. I gots you dis hotel thang, a sick on tha down-low place fo' you ta git yo ass together, finish yo' play, n' wait it up until Harry Effinger n' I could convince tha rest of dem muthafuckas dat they done cooked up a funky-ass big-ass mistake. Now it be lookin like you wanna chew mah arm off on yo' way ta a funky-ass bigger cappin'. Is dat tha way you say props ta yo' playas, Jack?"

"No," da thug whispered.

Dude didn't dare say mo' n' mo' n' mo' yo. His head was throbbin wit tha hot, acid-etched lyrics dat wanted ta git up yo. Dude tried desperately ta be thinkin of Danny n' Wendy, dependin on him, Danny n' Wendy chillin peacefully downstairs up in front of tha fire n' hustlin on tha straight-up original gangsta of tha second-grade readin primers, thankin every last muthafuckin thang was A-OK. If he lost dis thang, what tha fuck then, biatch? Off ta California up in dat chillaxed oldschool VW wit tha distintegratin gin n juice pump like a cold-ass lil crew of dustbowl Okies, biatch? Dude holla'd at his dirty ass da thug would git down on his knees n' beg Al before he let dat happen yo, but still tha lyrics struggled ta pour out, n' tha hand holdin tha bangin' wirez of his bangin rage felt greased.

"What?" Al holla'd sharply.

"No," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. "That aint tha way I treat mah playaz fo' realz. And you know dat shit."

"How tha fuck do I know it, biatch? At tha worst, you're plannin ta smear mah hotel by diggin up bodies dat was decently buried muthafuckin years ago fo' realz. At tha best, you call up mah temperamenstrual but mad competent hotel manager n' work his ass tha fuck into a gangbangin' frenzy as part of some... some wack kid's game."

"Dat shiznit was mo' than a game, Al. It's easier fo' you, biatch. Yo ass aint gots ta take some rich playa's charity. Yo ass don't need a gangbangin' playa up in court cuz yo ass is tha court. Da fact dat you was one step from a funky-ass brown-bag lush goes pretty much unmentioned, don't it?"

"I suppose it do," Al holla'd. His voice had dropped a notch n' da perved-out muthafucka sounded pissed wit tha whole thang. "But Jack, Jack... I can't help dis shit. I can't chizzle that."

"I know," Jack holla'd emptily. "Am I fired, biatch? I guess you betta tell me if I am."

"Not if you'll do two thangs fo' mah dirty ass."

"All right."

"Hadn't you betta hear tha conditions before you accept them?"

"No. Give me yo' deal n' I'll take dat shit. There's Wendy n' Danny ta be thinkin about. If you want mah balls, I'll bust dem airmail."

"Is you shizzle selfpitizzle be a luxury you can afford, Jack?"

Dude had closed his wild lil' fuckin eyes n' slid a Excedrin between his fuckin lil' dry lips. "At dis point I feel it's tha only one I can afford. Fire away... no pun intended."

Al was silent fo' a moment. Then da perved-out muthafucka holla'd: "First, no mo' calls ta Ullman. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Not even if tha place burns down. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. If dat happens, call tha maintenizzle dude, dat muthafucka whoz ass swears all tha time, you know whoz ass I mean..."

"Watson."

"Yes yes y'all."

"Okay. Done."

"Second, you promise me, Jack. Word of honor. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. No book on some gangbangin' hyped Colorado mountain hotel wit a history."

For a moment his bangin rage was so pimped out dat be literally could not speak. Da blood beat loudly up in his wild lil' fuckin ears. Dat shiznit was like gettin a cold-ass lil call from some twentiethcentury Medici prince... no portraitz of mah crew wit they warts showing, please, or back ta tha rabble you'll go. I subsidize no pictures but pretty pictures. When you paint tha daughta of mah phat playa n' bidnizz partner, please omit birthmark or back ta tha rabble you'll go. Of course we're playas... we is both civilized pimps aren't we, biatch? We've shared bed n' board n' bottle. We'll always be playas, n' tha dawg collar I have on yo big-ass booty is ghon always be ignored by mutual consent, n' I'll take phat n' benevolent care of you, biatch fo' realz. All I ask up in return is yo' ass. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Lil Small-Ass item. We can even ignore tha fact dat you've handed it over, tha way we ignore tha dawg collar. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Remember, mah talented playa, there be Michelangelos beggin everywhere up in tha streetz of Rome...

"Jack, biatch? Yo ass there?"

Dude done cooked up a strangled noise dat was intended ta be tha word yes.

Al's voice was firm n' straight-up shizzle of itself. "I straight-up don't be thinkin I'm askin so much, Jack fo' realz. And there is ghon be other books. Yo ass just can't expect me ta subsidize you while you, biatch..."

"All right, agreed."

"I don't want you ta be thinkin I'm tryin ta control yo' artistic game, Jack. Yo ass know me betta than dis shit. It's just that-"

"What?"

"Is Derwent still involved wit tha Overlook, biatch? Somehow?"

"I don't peep how tha fuck dat can possibly be any concern of yours, Jack."

"No," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd distantly. "I suppose it isn't. Listen, Al, I be thinkin I hear Wendy callin me fo' something. I'll git back ta you, biatch."

"Sure thang, Jacky-boy. We'll gotz a phat rap yo. How tha fuck is thangs, biatch? Dry?"

YOU'VE GOT YOUR POUND OF FLESH BLOOD AND ALL NOW CAN'T YOU LEAVE ME ALONE?)

"As a funky-ass bone."

"Here like a muthafucka. I'm straight-up beginnin ta trip off sobriety. If-"

"I'll git back, Al. Wendy-"

"Sure. Okay."

And so dat schmoooove muthafucka had hung up n' dat was when tha cramps had come, hittin his ass like lightnin bolts, makin his ass curl up in front of tha telephone like a penitent, handz over his belly, head throbbin like a monstrous bladder.

Da movin wasp, havin stung moves on...

It had passed a lil when Wendy came upstairs n' axed his ass whoz ass had been on tha phone.

"Al," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. "Dude called ta ask how tha fuck thangs was going. I holla'd they was fine."

"Jack, you look shitty. Is you sick?"

"Headache's back. I'm goin ta bed early. No sense tryin ta write."

"Can I git you some warm milk?"

Dude smiled wanly. "That would be sick."

And now he lay beside her, feelin her warm n' chillin thigh against his own. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Thinkin of tha conversation wit Al, how tha fuck dat schmoooove muthafucka had groveled, still made his ass bangin' n' cold by turns. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Somedizzle there would be a reckoning. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Somedizzle there would be a funky-ass book, not tha soft n' thoughtful thang dat schmoooove muthafucka had first considered yo, but a gemhard work of research, photo section n' all, n' da thug would pull apart tha entire Overlook history, nasty, incestuous ballershizzle deals n' all yo. Dude would spread all dat shiznit up fo' tha reader like a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dissected crayfish fo' realz. And if Al Shockley had connections wit tha Derwent empire, then Dogg help his muthafuckin ass.

Strung up like piano wire, he lay starin tha fuck into tha dark, knowin it might be minutes yet before his schmoooove ass could chill.



Wendy Torrizzle lay on her back, eyes closed, listenin ta tha sound of her homeboy's slumber-the long inhale, tha brief hold, tha slightly guttural exhale. Where did he go when da perved-out muthafucka slept, dat biiiiatch wondered. To some amusement park, a Great Barrington of trips where all tha rides was free n' there was no hoemutha along ta tell dem they'd had enough hotdawgs or dat they'd betta be goin if they wanted ta git home by dark, biatch? Or was it some fathoms-deep bar where tha drankin never stopped n' tha batwings was always propped open n' all tha oldschool companions was gathered round tha electronic hockey game, glasses up in hand, Al Shockley prominent among dem wit his cold-ass tie loosened n' tha top button of his hoodie undone, biatch? A place where both she n' Danny was excluded n' tha boogie went on endlessly?

Wendy was worried bout him, tha old, helpless worry dat dat freaky freaky biatch had hoped was behind her forever up in Vermont, as if worry could somehow not cross state lines. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch didn't like what tha fuck tha Overlook seemed ta be bustin ta Jack n' Danny.

Da most frightenin thang, vaporous n' unmentioned, like unmentionable, was dat all of Jack's drankin symptoms had come back, one by one... all but tha drank itself. Da constant wipin of tha lips wit hand or handkerchizzle, as if ta rid dem of excess moisture. Long pauses all up in tha typewriter, mo' ballz of paper up in tha wastebasket. There had been a funky-ass forty of Excedrin on tha telephone table tonight afta Al had called his ass yo, but no wata glass yo. Dude had been chewin dem again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude gots irritated over lil thangs yo. Dude would unconsciously start snappin his wild lil' fingers up in a straight-up trippin rhythm when thangs gots too on tha fuckin' down-low. Increased profanity. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch had begun ta worry bout his cold-ass temper, like a muthafucka. Well shiiiit, it would almost come as a relief if da thug would lose it, blow off steam, up in much tha same way dat da thug went down ta tha basement first thang up in tha mornin n' last thang at night ta dump tha press on tha boila n' shit. Well shiiiit, it would almost be phat ta peep his ass curse n' kick a cold-ass lil chair across tha room or slam a thugged-out door. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. But dem thangs, always a integral part of his cold-ass temperament, had almost wholly ceased. Yet dat freaky freaky biatch had tha feelin dat Jack was mo' n' mo' often mad salty wit her or Danny yo, but was refusin ta let it out. Da boila had a heat gauge: old, cracked, clotted wit grease yo, but still workable. Jack had none. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch had never been able ta read his ass straight-up well. Danny could yo, but Danny wasn't rappin'.

And tha call from Al fo' realz. At bout tha same time it had come, Danny had lost all interest up in tha rap they had been readin yo. Dude left her ta sit by tha fire n' crossed ta tha main desk where Jack had constructed a roadway fo' his crazy-ass matchbox rides n' trucks. Da Violent Violet Volkswagen was there n' Danny had begun ta push it rapidly back n' forth. Pretendin ta read her own book but straight-up lookin at Danny over tha top of it, dat freaky freaky biatch had peeped a odd amalgam of tha ways she n' Jack expressed anxiety. Da wipin of tha lips. Hustlin both handz nervously all up in his hair, as dat freaky freaky biatch had done while waitin fo' Jack ta come home from his bangin round of tha bars. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch couldn't believe Al had called just ta "ask how tha fuck thangs was going." If you wanted ta blast tha bull, you called Al. When Al called you, dat was bidnizz.

Later, when dat freaky freaky biatch had come back downstairs, dat freaky freaky biatch had found Danny curled up by tha fire again, readin tha second-grade-primer adventurez of Joe n' Ray-Ray all up in tha circus wit they daddy up in complete, absorbed attention. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da fidgety distraction had straight-up disappeared. Watchin him, dat freaky freaky biatch had been struck again n' again n' again by tha eerie certainty dat Danny knew mo' n' understood mo' than there was room fo' up in Dr. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. ("Just call me Bizzle") Edmonds's philosophy.

"Yo, time fo' bed, doc," she'd holla'd.

"Yeah, aiiight." Dude marked his thugged-out lil' place up in tha book n' stood up.

"Wash up n' brush yo' teeth."

"Okay."

"Don't forget ta use tha floss."

"I won't."

They stood side by side fo' a moment, watchin tha wax n' wane of tha coalz of tha fire. Most of tha lobby was chilly n' drafty yo, but dis circle round tha fireplace was magically warm, n' hard ta muthafuckin bounce.

"Dat shiznit was Uncle Al on tha phone," her big-ass booty holla'd casually.

"Oh yeah?" Straight-Up unsurprised.

"I wonder if Uncle Al was mad at Daddy," her big-ass booty holla'd, still casually.

"Yeah, da perved-out muthafucka shizzle was," Danny holla'd, still watchin tha fire. "Dude didn't want Daddy ta write tha book."

"What book, Danny?"

"Bout tha hotel."

Da question framed on her lips was one she n' Jack had axed Danny a thousand times: How tha fuck do you know that, biatch? Biatch hadn't axed his muthafuckin ass. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch didn't wanna upset his ass before bed, or make his ass aware dat they was casually discussin his knowledge of thangs dat schmoooove muthafucka had no way of knowin at all fo' realz. And da ruffneck did know, dat biiiiatch was convinced of dis shit. Dr. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Edmonds's patta bout inductizzle reasonin n' subconscious logic was just that: patter n' shiznit yo. Her sister... how tha fuck had Danny known dat biiiiatch was thankin bout Aileen up in tha waitin room dat day, biatch? And

(I dreamed Daddy had a accident.)

Bitch shook her head, as if ta clear dat shit. "Go wash up, doc."

"Okay." Dude ran up tha stairs toward they quarters. Frowning, dat freaky freaky biatch had gone tha fuck into tha kitchen ta warm Jack's gin n juice up in a saucepan.

And now, lyin wakeful up in her bed n' listenin ta her homeboy's breathang n' tha wind outside (miraculously, they'd had only another flurry dat afternoon; still no heavy snow), she let her mind turn straight-up ta her ghettofab, troublin son, born wit a cold-ass lil caul over his wild lil' face, a simple tissue of membrane dat doctors saw like once up in every last muthafuckin seven hundred births, a tissue dat tha oldschool wives' talez holla'd betokened tha second sight.

Bitch decided dat dat shiznit was time ta rap ta Danny bout tha Overlook... n' high time dat dunkadelic hoe tried ta git Danny ta rap ta her n' shit. Tomorrow. For sure. Da two of dem would be goin down ta tha Sidewinder Public Library ta peep if they could git his ass some second-grade-level books on a extended loan all up in tha winter, n' dat biiiiatch would rap ta his muthafuckin ass fo' realz. And frankly. With dat thought she felt a lil easier, n' at last fuckin started ta drift toward chill.



Danny lay awake up in his bedroom, eyes open, left arm encirclin his thugged-out aged n' slightly worse-for-wear Pooh (Pooh had lost one shoe-button eye n' was oozin stuffin from half a thugged-out dozen sprung seams), listenin ta his thugged-out lil' muthafathas chill up in they bedroom yo. Dude felt as if da thug was standin unwillin guard over dem wild-ass muthafuckas. Da nights was da most thugged-out shitty of all yo. Dude hated tha nights n' tha constant howl of tha wind round tha westside side of tha hotel.

His glider floated overhead from a string. On his bureau tha VW model, brought up from tha roadway setup downstairs, glowed a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dimly fluorescent purple yo. His books was up in tha bookcase, his colorin books on tha desk fo' realz. A place fo' every last muthafuckin thang n' every last muthafuckin thang up in its place. Mommy holla'd. Then you know where it is when you want dat shit. But now thangs had been misplaced. Things was missing. Worse still, thangs had been added, thangs you couldn't like see, like up in one of dem pictures dat holla'd CAN YOU SEE THE INDIANS, biatch? And if you strained n' squinted, you could peep a shitload of them-the thang you had taken fo' a cold-ass lil cactus at first glizzle was straight-up a funky-ass brave wit a knife clamped up in his cold-ass teeth, n' there was others hidin up in tha rocks, n' you could even peep one of they evil, merciless faces peerin all up in tha spokez of a cold-ass lil covered wagon wheel. But you could never peep all of them, n' dat was what tha fuck made you uneasy. Because dat shiznit was tha ones you couldn't peep dat would sneak up behind you, a tomahawk up in one hand n' a scalpin knife up in tha other...

Dude shifted uneasily up in his bed, his wild lil' fuckin eyes searchin up tha comfortin glow of tha night light. Things was worse here, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho yo. Dude knew dat much fo' shizzle fo' realz. At first they hadn't been so bad yo, but lil by lil... his fuckin lil' daddy thought bout drankin a shitload mo' n' mo' n' mo'. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Sometimes da thug was mad salty at Mommy n' didn't know why yo. Dude went round wipin his fuckin lips wit his handkerchizzle n' his wild lil' fuckin eyes was far away n' cloudy. Mommy was worried bout his ass n' Danny, like a muthafucka yo. Dude didn't gotta shine tha fuck into her ta know that; it had been up in tha anxious way dat freaky freaky biatch had dissed his ass on tha dizzle tha fire hose had seemed ta turn tha fuck into a snake. Mista Muthafuckin yo. Hallorann holla'd tha pimpin' muthafucka thought all mothers could shine a lil bit, n' dat freaky freaky biatch had known on dat dizzle dat suttin' had happened. But not what.

Dude had almost holla'd at her yo, but a cold-ass lil couple thangs had held his ass back yo. Dude knew dat tha doctor up in Sidewinder had dissed n' dismissed Tony n' tha thangs dat Tony flossed his ass as perfectly

(well almost)

normal. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack yo. His mutha might not believe his ass if tha pimpin' muthafucka holla'd at her bout tha hose. Worse, she might believe his ass up in tha wack way, might be thinkin da thug was LOSING HIS MARBLES yo. Dude understood a lil bout LOSING YOUR MARBLES, not as much as da ruffneck did bout GETTING A BABY, which his crazy-ass mommy had explained ta his ass tha year before at some length yo, but enough.

Once, at nursery school, his wild lil' playa Scott had pointed up a funky-ass pimp named Robin Stenger, whoz ass was mopin round tha swings wit a gangbangin' grill almost long enough ta step on. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Robin's daddy taught arithmetic at Daddy's school, n' Scott's daddy taught history there, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. Most of tha lil playas all up in tha nursery school was associated either wit Stovington Prep or wit tha lil' small-ass IBM plant just outside of town. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da prep lil playas chummed up in one group, tha IBM lil playas up in another n' shit. There was crossfriendships, of course yo, but dat shiznit was natural enough fo' tha lil playas whose fathers knew each other ta mo' or less stick together n' shit. When there was a adult scandal up in one group, it almost always filtered down ta tha lil pimps up in some wildly mutated form or other yo, but it rarely jumped ta tha other group.

Dude n' Scotty was chillin up in tha play rocketshizzle when Scotty jerked his cold-ass thumb at Robin n' holla'd: "Yo ass know dat kid?"

"Yeah," Danny holla'd.

Scott leaned forward. "His daddy LOST HIS MARBLES last night. They took his ass away."

"Yeah, biatch? Just fo' losin some marbles?"

Scotty looked disgusted. This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. "Dude went crazy. Yo ass know." Scott crossed his wild lil' fuckin eyes, flopped up his cold-ass tongue, n' twirled his crazy-ass muthafuckin index fingers up in big-ass elliptical orbits round his wild lil' fuckin ears. "They took his ass t0 THE BUGHOUSE."

"Fuck dat shit," Danny holla'd. "When will they let his ass come back?"

"Never-never-never," Scotty holla'd darkly.

In tha course of dat dizzle n' tha next, Danny heard that

a.) Mista Muthafuckin Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Stenger had tried ta bust a cap up in dem hoes up in his crew, includin Robin, wit his Ghetto Battle Pt II souvenir pistol;

b.) Mista Muthafuckin Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Stenger ripped tha doggy den ta pieces while da thug was STINKO;

c.) Mista Muthafuckin Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Stenger had been discovered smokin a funky-ass bowl of dead bugs n' grass like they was cereal n' gin n juice n' bustin up like a biatch while da ruffneck done did it;

d.) Mista Muthafuckin Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Stenger had tried ta strangle his hoe wit a stockin when tha Red Sox lost a funky-ass big-ass bizzle game.

Finally, too shitd ta keep it ta his dirty ass, dat schmoooove muthafucka had axed Daddy bout Mista Muthafuckin Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Stenger n' shiznit yo. His daddy had taken his ass on his fuckin lap n' had explained dat Mista Muthafuckin Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Stenger had been under a pimped out deal of strain, a shitload of it bout his crew n' some bout his thang n' a shitload of it bout thangs dat no muthafucka but doctors could understand. Dude had been havin bustin up like a biatch fits, n' three nights ago dat schmoooove muthafucka had gotten bustin up like a biatch n' couldn't stop it n' had fucked up a shitload of thangs up in tha Stenger home. Well shiiiit, it wasn't LOSING YOUR MARBLES, Daddy holla'd, dat shiznit was HAVING A BREAKDOWN, n' Mista Muthafuckin Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Stenger wasn't up in a BUGHOUSE but up in a SANNY-TARIUM. But despite Daddy's careful explanations, Danny was trippin like a muthafucka. There didn't seem ta be any difference at all between LOSING YOUR MARBLES n' HAVING A BREAKDOWN, n' whether you called it a BUGHOUSE or a SANNYTARIUM, there was still bars on tha windows n' they wouldn't let you up if you wanted ta bounce tha fuck up fo' realz. And his wild lil' father, like innocently, had confirmed another of Scotty's phrases unchanged, one dat filled Danny wit a vague n' unformed dread. In tha place where Mista Muthafuckin Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Stenger now lived, there was THE MEN IN THE WHITE COATS. They came ta git you up in a truck wit no windows, a truck dat was gravestone gray. Well shiiiit, it rolled up ta tha curb up in front of yo' doggy den n' THE MEN IN THE WHITE COATS gots up n' took you away from yo' crew n' made you live up in a room wit soft walls fo' realz. And if you wanted ta write home, you had ta do it wit Crayolas.

"When will they let his ass come back?" Danny axed his wild lil' father.

"Just as soon as he's better, doc."

"But when will dat be?" Danny had persisted.

"Dan," Jack holla'd, "NO ONE KNOWS."

And dat was da most thugged-out shitty of all. Dat shiznit was another way of sayin never-never-never n' shiznit fo' realz. A month later, Robin's mutha took his ass outta nursery school n' they moved away from Stovington without Mista Muthafuckin Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Stenger.

That had been over a year ago, afta Daddy stopped takin tha Shiznitty Stuff but before dat schmoooove muthafucka had lost his thang. Danny still thought bout it often. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Sometimes when he fell tha fuck down or bumped his head or had a funky-ass bellyache, da thug would begin ta cry n' tha memory would flash over him, accompanied by tha fear dat da thug would not be able ta stop crying, dat da thug would just go on n' on, weepin n' wailing, until his fuckin lil' daddy went ta tha phone, dialed it, n' holla'd: "Hello, biatch? This is Jack Torrizzle at 149 Mapleline Way. My fuckin lil hustla here can't stop crying. Please bust THE MEN IN THE WHITE COATS t0 take his ass ta tha SANNY-TARIUM. That's right, he's LOST HIS MARBLES. Nuff props, biatch." And tha gray truck wit no windows would come rollin up ta his fuckin lil' door, they would load his ass in, still weepin hysterically, n' take his ass away. When would da perved-out muthafucka peep his crazy-ass mommy n' daddy again, biatch? NO ONE KNOWS.

Dat shiznit was dis fear dat had kept his ass silent fo' realz. A year older, da thug was like shizzle dat his fuckin lil' daddy n' mommy wouldn't let his ass be taken away fo' thankin a gangbangin' fire hose was a snake, his bangin rationizzle mind was shizzle of dat yo, but still, when tha pimpin' muthafucka thought of spittin some lyrics ta them, dat oldschool memory rose up like a stone fillin his crazy-ass grill n' blockin lyrics. Well shiiiit, it wasn't like Tony; Tony had always seemed perfectly natural (until tha shitty dreams, of course), n' his thugged-out lil' muthafathas had also seemed ta accept Tony as a mo' or less natural phenomenon. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Things like Tony came from bein BRIGHT, which they both assumed da thug was (the same way they assumed they was BRIGHT) yo, but a gangbangin' fire hose dat turned tha fuck into a snake, or seein blood n' domes on tha wall of tha Presidential Sweet when no one else could, dem thangs would not be natural. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack. They had already taken his ass ta peep a regular doctor. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Was it not reasonable ta assume dat THE MEN IN THE WHITE COATS might come next?

Still he might have holla'd at dem except da thug was sure, sooner or later, dat they would wanna take his ass away from tha hotel fo' realz. And da thug wanted desperately ta git away from tha Overlook. But he also knew dat dis was his fuckin lil' daddy's last chance, dat da thug was here all up in tha Overlook ta do mo' than take care of tha place yo. Dude was here ta work on his thugged-out lil' papers. To git over losin his thang. To ludd Mommy/Wendy fo' realz. And until straight-up recently, it had seemed dat all dem thangs was happening. Dat shiznit was only lately dat Daddy had begun ta have shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Since he found dem papers.

(This inhuman place make human monsters.)

What did dat mean, biatch? Dude had prayed ta Dogg yo, but Dogg hadn't holla'd at his muthafuckin ass fo' realz. And what tha fuck would Daddy do if da perved-out muthafucka stopped hustlin here, biatch? Dude had tried ta smoke up from Daddy's mind, n' had become mo' n' mo' convinced dat Daddy didn't know. Da strongest proof had come earlier dis evenin when Uncle Al had called his fuckin lil' daddy up on tha beeper n' holla'd mean thangs n' Daddy didn't dare say anythang back cuz Uncle Al could fire his ass from dis thang just tha way dat Mista Muthafuckin Crommert, tha Stovington headmaster, n' tha Board of Directors had fired his ass from his schoolteachin thang fo' realz. And Daddy was scared ta dirtnap of that, fo' his ass n' Mommy as well as his dirty ass.

So da ruffneck didn't dare say anythang yo. Dude could only peep helplessly n' hope dat there straight-up weren't any Indians at all, or if there was dat they would be content ta wait fo' bigger game n' let they lil three-wagon train pass unmolested.

But his schmoooove ass couldn't believe it, no matta how tha fuck hard tha pimpin' muthafucka tried.

Things was worse all up in tha Overlook now, nahmeean?

Da snow was coming, n' when it did, any skanky options dat schmoooove muthafucka had would be abrogated. This type'a shiznit happens all tha time fo' realz. And afta tha snow, what, biatch? What then, when they was shut up in n' all up in tha mercy of whatever might have only been toyin wit dem before?

(Come up here n' take yo' medicine!)

What then, biatch? REDRUM.

Dude shivered up in his bed n' turned over again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude could read mo' now, nahmeean, biatch? Tomorrow maybe da thug would try ta booty-call Tony, da thug would try ta make Tony show his ass exactly what tha fuck REDRUM was n' if there was any way his schmoooove ass could prevent it yo. Dude Would risk tha nightmares yo. Dude had ta know.

Danny was still awake long afta his thugged-out lil' muthafathas' false chill had become tha real thang yo. Dude rolled up in his bed, twistin tha sheets, grapplin wit a problem muthafuckin years too big-ass fo' him, awake up in tha night like a single sentinel on picket fo' realz. And sometime afta midnight, da perved-out muthafucka slept too n' then only tha wind was awake, pryin all up in tha hotel n' hootin up in its gablez under tha bright gimlet gaze of tha stars.

Chapta 22. In Tha Truck
I peep a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shitty-ass moon a-rising.

I peep shiznit on tha way.

I peep earthquakes n' lightnin'

I peep shitty times todizzle.

Don't go 'round tonight,

It's bound ta take yo' game,

There's a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shitty-ass moon on tha rise.

Someone had added a straight-up oldschool Buick hoopty radio under tha hotel truck's dashboard, n' now, tinny n' choked wit static, tha distinctizzle sound of Jizzy Fogerty's Creedence Clearwata Revival crew came outta tha speaker n' shit. Wendy n' Danny was on they way down ta Sidewinder n' shit. Da dizzle was clear n' bright. Danny was turnin Jack's orange library card over n' over up in his handz n' seemed cheerful enough yo, but Wendy thought he looked drawn n' tired, as if be hadn't been chillin enough n' was goin on straight-up trippin juice ridin' solo.

Da cold lil' woo wop ended n' tha disc jockey came on. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. "Yeah, that's Creedence fo' realz. And speakin of shitty moon, it be lookin like it may be risin over tha KMTX listenin area before long, hard as it is ta believe wit tha dope, springlike drizzle we've enjoyed fo' tha last couple-three days. Da KMTX Fearless Forecasta say high heat will give way by one o'clock dis afternoon ta a widespread lowheat area which is just gonna grind ta a stop up in our KMTX area, up where tha air is rare. Temperatures will fall rapidly, n' precipitation should start round dusk. Elevations under seven thousand feet, includin tha metro-Denver area, can expect a mixture of sleet n' snow, like freezin on some roads, n' nothin but snow up here, cuz. We're lookin at one ta three inches below seven thousand n' possible accumulationz of six ta ten inches up in Central Colorado n' on tha Slope. Da Highway Advisory Board say dat if you're plannin ta trip tha mountains up in yo' hoopty dis afternoon or tonight, you should remember dat tha chain law is ghon be up in effect fo' realz. And don't go nowhere unless you have to. Remember," tha announcer added jocularly, "that's how tha fuck tha Donners gots tha fuck into shit. They just weren't as close ta tha nearest Seven-Eleven as they thought."

A Clairol commercial came on, n' Wendy reached down n' snapped tha radio off. "Yo ass mind?"

"Huh-uh, that's all gravy." Dude glanced up all up in tha sky, which was bright blue. "Guess Daddy picked just tha right dizzle ta trim dem hedge muthafuckas, didn't he?"

"I guess da ruffneck did," Wendy holla'd.

"Sure don't look much like snow, though," Danny added hopefully.

"Gettin cold feet?" Wendy asked. Biatch was still thankin bout dat crack tha disc jockey had made bout tha Donner Party.

"Nah, I guess not."

Well, dat dunkadelic hoe thought, dis is tha time. If you're goin ta brang it up, do it now or forever git freaky wit yo' peace.

"Danny," her big-ass booty holla'd, makin her voice as casual as possible, "would you be happier if we went away from tha Overlook, biatch? If our phat asses didn't stay tha winter?"

Danny looked down at his hands. "I guess so," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. "Yeah. But it's Daddy's thang."

"Sometimes," her big-ass booty holla'd carefully, "I git tha scam dat Daddy might be happier away from tha Overlook, like a muthafucka." They passed a sign which read SIDEWINDER 18 mi. n' then dat dunkadelic hoe took tha truck cautiously round a hairpin n' shifted up tha fuck into second. Biatch took no chances on these downgrades; they scared her silly.

"Do you straight-up be thinkin so?" Danny asked. Dude looked at her wit interest fo' a moment n' then shook his head. "Fuck dat shit, I don't be thinkin so."

"Why not?"

"Because he's worried bout us," Danny holla'd, choosin his fuckin lyrics carefully. Dat shiznit was hard ta explain, he understood so lil of it his dirty ass yo. Dude found his dirty ass harkin back ta a incident dat schmoooove muthafucka had holla'd at Mista Muthafuckin yo. Hallorann about, tha big-ass kid lookin at department store TV sets n' wantin ta loot one. That had been distressin yo, but at least it had been clear what tha fuck was goin on, even ta Danny, then lil mo' than a infant. But grownups was always up in a turmoil, every last muthafuckin possible action muddied over by thoughtz of tha consequences, by self-doubt, by seIfimage, by vibe of ludd n' responsibility. Every possible chizzle seemed ta have drawbacks, n' sometimes da ruffneck didn't KNOW why tha drawbacks was drawbacks. Dat shiznit was straight-up hard.

"Dude thinks..." Danny fuckin started again, n' then looked at his crazy-ass mutha doggystyle. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch was watchin tha road, not lookin at him, n' he felt his schmoooove ass could go on.

"Dude be thinkin maybe we'll be lonely fo' realz. And then tha pimpin' muthafucka be thinkin dat he likes it here n' it's a phat place fo' our asses yo. Dude loves our asses n' don't want our asses ta be lonely... or sad... but tha pimpin' muthafucka be thinkin even if we are, it might be aiiight up in tha LONGRUN. Do you know LONGRUN?"

Bitch nodded. "Yes, dear. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. I do."

"He's worried dat if our slick asses left his schmoooove ass couldn't git another thang. That we'd gotta beg, or something."

"Is dat all?"

"Fuck dat shiznit yo, but tha rest be all mixed up. Because he's different now, nahmeean?"

"Yes," her big-ass booty holla'd, almost sighing. Da grade eased a lil n' her big-ass booty shifted cautiously back ta third gear.

"I'm not makin dis up, Mommy yo. Honest ta Dogg."

"I know that," her big-ass booty holla'd, n' smiled. "Did Tony tell yo slick ass?"

"No," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. "I just know. That doctor didn't believe up in Tony, did he?"

"Never mind dat doctor," her big-ass booty holla'd. "I believe up in Tony. I don't know what tha fuck he is or whoz ass he is, if he's a part of y'all that's special or if his schmoooove ass be reppin... somewhere outside yo, but I do believe up in him, Danny fo' realz. And if you, biatch... he... be thinkin we should go, we will. Da two of our asses will go n' be together wit Daddy again n' again n' again up in tha spring."

Dude looked at her wit sharp hope. "Where, biatch? A motel?"

"Hon, we couldn't afford a motel. Well shiiiit, it would gotta be at mah mother's."

Da hope up in Danny's grill took a dirt nap out. "I know-" da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, n' stopped.

"What?"

"Nothing," he muttered.

Bitch shifted back ta second as tha grade steepened again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. "Fuck dat shit, doc, please don't say dis shit. This rap is suttin' we should have had weeks ago, I think. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So. Biiiatch please.What tha fuck iz it you know, biatch? I won't be mad. I can't be mad, cuz dis is too blingin. Talk straight ta mah dirty ass."

"I know how tha fuck you feel bout her," Danny holla'd, n' sighed.

"How tha fuck do I feel?"

"Bad," Danny holla'd, n' then rhyming, singsong, frightenin her: "Bad. Sad. Mad. It's like dat biiiiatch wasn't yo' mommy at all. Like dat biiiiatch wanted ta smoke you, biatch." Dude looked at her, frightened. "And I don't like it there, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. She's always thankin bout how tha fuck dat biiiiatch would be betta fo' me than you, biatch fo' realz. And how tha fuck dat thugged-out biiiatch could git me away from you, biatch. Mommy, I don't wanna go there, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. I'd rather be all up in tha Overlook than there."

Wendy was shaken. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Was it dat shitty between her n' hermother, biatch? God, what tha fuck hell fo' tha pimp if dat shiznit was n' his schmoooove ass could straight-up read they thoughts fo' each other n' shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch suddenly felt mo' naked than naked, as if dat freaky freaky biatch had been caught up in a obscene act.

"All right," her big-ass booty holla'd. "All right, Danny."

"You're mad at me," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd up in a small, near-to-tears voice.

"Fuck dat shit, I'm not. Straight-Up I'm not. I'm just sort of shook up." They was passin a SIDEWINDER 15 mi. sign, n' Wendy chillaxed a lil. From here on up in tha road was better.

"I wanna ask you one mo' question, Danny. I want you ta answer it as truthfully as you can. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Will you do that?"

"Yes, Mommy," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, almost whispering.

"Has yo' daddy been drankin again?"

"No," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, n' smothered tha two lyrics dat rose behind his fuckin lips afta dat simple negative: Not yet.

Wendy chillaxed a lil mo' n' mo' n' mo'. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch put a hand on Danny's jeans-clad leg n' squeezed dat shit. "Yo crazy-ass daddy has tried straight-up hard," her big-ass booty holla'd softly. "Because he loves our asses fo' realz. And our slick asses ludd him, don't we?"

Dude nodded gravely.

Speakin almost ta her muthafuckin ass dat biiiiatch went on: "He's not a slick dude yo, but dat schmoooove muthafucka has tried... Danny, he's tried so hard hommie! When he... stopped... da thug went all up in a kind of hell yo. He's still goin all up in dat shit. I be thinkin if it hadn't been fo' us, da thug would have just let go. I wanna do what's right fo' realz. And I don't know. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Should we go, biatch? Stay, biatch? It's like a cold-ass lil chizzle between tha fat n' tha fire."

"I know."

"Would you do suttin' fo' me, doc?"

"What?"

"Try ta make Tony come. Right now fo' realz. Ask his ass if we're safe all up in tha Overlook."

"I already tried," Danny holla'd slowly. "This morning."

"What happened?" Wendy asked. "What did da perved-out muthafucka say?"

"Dude didn't come," Danny holla'd. "Tony didn't come." And da perved-out muthafucka suddenly burst tha fuck into tears.

"Danny," her big-ass booty holla'd, alarmed. "Honey, don't do dis shit. Please-" Da truck swerved across tha double yellow line n' she pulled it back, trippin like a muthafucka.

"Don't take me ta Gramma's," Danny holla'd all up in his cold-ass tears. "Please, Mommy, I don't wanna go there, I wanna stay wit Daddy-"

"All right," her big-ass booty holla'd softly. "All right, that's what tha fuck we'll do." Biatch took a Kleenex outta tha pocket of her Western-style hoodie n' handed it ta his muthafuckin ass. "We'll stay fo' realz. And every last muthafuckin thang is ghon be fine. Just fine."

Chapta 23. In Tha Playground
Jack came up onto tha porch, tuggin tha tab of his zipper up under his chin, blinkin tha fuck into tha bright air. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. In his fuckin left hand da thug was holdin a funky-ass battery-powered hedge-clipper n' shiznit yo. Dude tugged a gangbangin' fresh handkerchizzle outta his back pocket wit his bangin right hand, wiped his fuckin lips wit it, n' tucked it away. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Snow, they had holla'd on tha radio. Dat shiznit was hard ta believe, even though his schmoooove ass could peep tha cloudz buildin up on tha far horizon.

Dude started down tha path ta tha topiary, switchin tha hedge-clipper over ta tha other hand. Well shiiiit, it wouldn't be a long-ass thang, tha pimpin' muthafucka thought; a lil touch-up would do dat shit. Da cold nights had surely stunted they growth. Da rabbit's ears looked a lil fuzzy, n' two of tha dawg's hairy-ass legs had grown fuzzy chronic bonespurs yo, but tha lions n' tha buffalo looked fine. Just a lil haircut would do tha trick, n' then let tha snow come.

Da concrete path ended as abruptly as a gangbangin' finger-lickin' divin board. Dude stepped off it n' strutted past tha drained pool ta tha gravel path which wound all up in tha hedge sculptures n' tha fuck into tha playground itself yo. Dude strutted over ta tha rabbit n' pushed tha button on tha handle of tha clippers. Well shiiiit, it hummed tha fuck into on tha down-low game.

"Yea muthafucka, Br'er Rabbit," Jack holla'd. "How tha fuck is you todizzle, biatch? A lil off tha top n' git a shitload of tha extra off yo' ears, biatch? Fine. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Say, did you hear tha one bout tha travelin salesman n' tha oldschool lady wit a pet poodle?"

His voice sounded unnatural n' wack up in his wild lil' fuckin ears, n' da perved-out muthafucka stopped. Well shiiiit, it occurred ta his ass dat da ruffneck didn't care much fo' these hedge muthafuckas. Well shiiiit, it had always seemed slightly perverted ta his ass ta clip n' torture a plain oldschool hedge tha fuck into suttin' dat it wasn't fo' realz. Along one of tha highways up in Vermont there had been a hedge billboard on a high slope overlookin tha road, advertisin some kind of ice cream. Makin nature peddle ice cream, dat was just wrong. Dat shiznit was grotesque.

(Yo ass weren't hired ta philosophize, Torrance.)

Ah, dat was true. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So true yo. Dude clipped along tha rabbit's ears, brushin a lil' small-ass litta of sticks n' twigs off onto tha grass. Da hedge-clipper hummed up in dat low n' rather disgustingly metallic way dat all battery-powered appliances seem ta have. Da sun was solid but it held no warmth, n' now it wasn't so hard ta believe dat snow was coming.

Workin quickly, knowin dat ta stop n' be thinkin when you was at dis kind of a task probably meant bustin a mistake, Jack touched up tha rabbit's "face" (up dis close it didn't be lookin like a gangbangin' grill at all yo, but he knew dat at a gangbangin' finger-lickin' distizzle of twenty paces or so light n' shadow would seem ta suggest one; that, n' tha viewer's imagination) n' then zipped tha clippers along its belly.

That done, da perved-out muthafucka shut tha clippers off, strutted down toward tha playground, n' then turned back abruptly ta git all dat shiznit at once, tha entire rabbit. Yes, it looked all right. Well, da thug would do tha dawg next.

"But if dat shiznit was mah hotel," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, "I'd cut tha whole damn bunch of y'all down." Dude would, like a muthafucka. Just cut dem down n' resod tha lawn where they'd been n' put up in half a thugged-out dozen lil' small-ass metal tablez wit gaily colored umbrellas. Muthafuckas could have cocktails on tha Overlook's lawn up in tha summer sun. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Sloe gin fizzes n' margaritas n' pink ladies n' all dem dope tourist drinks fo' realz. A rum n' tonic, maybe. Jack took his handkerchizzle outta his back pocket n' slowly rubbed his fuckin lips wit dat shit.

"Come on, come on," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd softly. That was not a god damn thang ta be thankin about.

Dude was goin ta start back, n' then some impulse made his ass chizzle his crazy-ass mind n' da thug went down ta tha playground instead. Dat shiznit was funky how tha fuck you never knew kids, tha pimpin' muthafucka thought yo. Dude n' Wendy had expected Danny would ludd tha playground; it had every last muthafuckin thang a kid could want. But Jack didn't be thinkin tha pimp had been down half a thugged-out dozen times, if dis shiznit yo. Dude supposed if there had been another kid ta play with, it would done been different.

Da gate squeaked slightly as he let his dirty ass in, n' then there was crushed gravel crunchin under his Nikes yo. Dude went first ta tha playhouse, tha slick scale model of tha Overlook itself. Well shiiiit, it came up ta his fuckin lower thigh, just bout Danny's height when da thug was standin up. Jack hunkered down n' looked up in tha third-floor windows.

"Da giant has come ta smoke you all up in yo' beds," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd hollowly. "Kiss yo' Triple A ratin peace out." But dat wasn't funky, either n' shit. Yo ass could open tha doggy den simply by pullin it apart-it opened on a hidden hinge. Da inside was a gangbangin' finger-lickin' disappointment. Da walls was painted yo, but tha place was mostly hollow. But of course it would gotta be, tha pimpin' muthafucka holla'd at his dirty ass, or how tha fuck else could tha lil playas git inside, biatch? What play furniture might go wit tha place up in tha summer was gone, probably packed away up in tha shiznit shed. Dude closed it up n' heard tha lil' small-ass click as tha latch closed.

Dude strutted over ta tha slide, set tha hedge-clipper down, n' afta a glizzle back all up in tha driveway ta make shizzle Wendy n' Danny hadn't returned, his schmoooove ass climbed ta tha top n' sat down. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. This was tha big-ass kids' slide yo, but tha fit was still uncomfortably tight fo' his wild lil' freakadelic grownup ass yo. How tha fuck long had it been since dat schmoooove muthafucka had been on a slide, biatch? Twenty years, biatch? It didn't seem possible it could be dat long, it didn't feel dat long yo, but it had ta be that, or mo' n' mo' n' mo' yo. Dude could remember his oldschool playa takin his ass ta tha park up in Berlin when dat schmoooove muthafucka had been Danny's age, n' dat schmoooove muthafucka had done tha whole bit-slide, swings, teeter-totters, every last muthafuckin thang yo. Dude n' tha oldschool playa would gotz a hotdog lunch n' loot peanuts from tha playa wit tha cart afterward. They would sit on a funky-ass bench ta smoke dem n' dusky cloudz of pigeons would flock round they Nikes.

"Goddam scavenger birds," his fuckin lil' daddy would say, "don't you feed them, Jacky." But they would both end up feedin them, n' gigglin all up in tha way they ran afta tha nuts, tha greedy way they ran afta tha nuts, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. Jack didn't be thinkin tha oldschool playa had eva taken his brothers ta tha park. Jack had been his wild lil' favorite, n' even so Jack had taken his fuckin lumps when tha oldschool playa was faded, which was a shitload of tha time. But Jack had loved his ass fo' as long as da thug was able, long afta tha rest of tha crew could only don't give a fuck bout n' fear his muthafuckin ass.

Dude pushed off wit his handz n' went ta tha bottom yo, but tha trip was unsatisfying. Da slide, unused, had too much friction n' no straight-up pleasant speed could be built up fo' realz. And his thugged-out ass was just too big-ass yo. His adult feet thumped tha fuck into tha slight dip where thousandz of children's feet had landed before his muthafuckin ass yo. Dude stood up, brushed all up in tha seat of his thugged-out lil' pants, n' looked all up in tha hedge-clipper n' shit. But instead of goin back ta it da thug went ta tha swings, which was also a gangbangin' finger-lickin' disappointment. Da chains had built up rust since tha close of tha season, n' they squealed like thangs up in pain. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Jack promised his dirty ass da thug would oil dem up in tha spring.

Yo ass betta stop it, he advised his dirty ass. You're not a kid no mo'. Yo ass don't need dis place ta prove dat shit.

But da thug went on ta tha cement rings-they was too lil' small-ass fo' his ass n' he passed dem up-and then ta tha securitizzle fence which marked tha edge of tha groundz yo. Dude curled his wild lil' fingers all up in tha links n' looked through, tha sun crosshatchin shadow-lines on his wild lil' grill like a playa behind bars yo. Dude recognized tha similaritizzle his dirty ass n' da perved-out muthafucka shook tha chain link, put a harried expression on his wild lil' face, n' whispered: "Lemme outta here biaaatch! Lemme outta here!" But fo' tha third time, not funky. Dat shiznit was time ta git back ta work.

That was when dat schmoooove muthafucka heard tha sound behind his muthafuckin ass.

Dude turned round quickly, frowning, embarrassed, wonderin if one of mah thugs had peeped his ass foolin round down here up in kiddie ghetto yo. His eyes ticked off tha slides, tha opposin anglez of tha seesaws, tha swings up in which only tha wind sat. Beyond all dat ta tha gate n' tha low fence dat divided tha playground from tha lawn n' tha topiary-the lions gathered protectively round tha path, tha rabbit bent over as if ta crop grass, tha buffalo locked n loaded ta charge, tha crouchin dog. Beyond them, tha puttin chronic n' tha hotel itself. From here his schmoooove ass could even peep tha raised lip of tha roque court on tha Overlook's westside side.

Everythang was just as it had been. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So why had tha flesh of his wild lil' grill n' handz begun ta creep, n' why shitty tha afro along tha back of his neck begun ta stand up, as if tha flesh back there had suddenly tightened?

Dude squinted up all up in tha hotel again yo, but dat was no answer n' shit. Well shiiiit, it simply stood there, its windows dark, a tiny thread of smoke curlin from tha chimney, comin from tha banked fire up in tha lobby.

(Buster, you betta git goin or they're goin ta come back n' wonder if you was bustin anythang all tha while.)

Sure, git going. Because tha snow was comin n' dat schmoooove muthafucka had ta git tha damn hedges trimmed. Dat shiznit was part of tha agreement. Besides, they wouldn't dare

(Dum diddy-dum, here I come biaaatch! Who tha fuck wouldn't, biatch? What wouldn't, biatch? Dare do what?)

Dude fuckin started ta strutt back toward tha hedge-clipper all up in tha foot of tha big-ass kids' slide, n' tha sound of his wild lil' feet crunchin on tha crushed stone seemed abnormally loud. Now tha flesh on his nutsack had begun ta creep too, n' his buttocks felt hard n' heavy, like stone.

(Jesus, what tha fuck is this?)

Dude stopped by tha hedge-clipper yo, but made no move ta pick it up. Yes, there was suttin' different. In tha topiary fo' realz. And dat shiznit was so simple, so easy as fuck ta see, dat he just wasn't pickin it up. Come on, da perved-out muthafucka scolded his dirty ass, you just trimmed tha fuckin rabbit, so what's the

(that's it)

His breath stopped up in his cold-ass throat.

Da rabbit was down on all fours, croppin grass. Its belly was against tha ground. But not ten minutes ago it had been up on its hind legs, of course it had been, dat schmoooove muthafucka had trimmed its ears... n' its belly.

His eyes darted ta tha dog. When dat schmoooove muthafucka had come down tha path it had been chillin up, as if beggin fo' a thugged-out dope. Now dat shiznit was crouched, head tilted, tha clipped wedge of grill seemin ta snarl silently fo' realz. And tha lions-

(oh no, baby, oh no, uh-uh, no way)

the lions was closer ta tha path. Da two on his bangin right had subtly chizzled positions, had drawn closer together n' shit. Da tail of tha one on tha left now almost jutted up over tha path. When dat schmoooove muthafucka had come past dem n' all up in tha gate, dat lion had been on tha right n' da thug was like shizzle its tail had been curled round dat shit.

They was no longer protectin tha path; they was blockin dat shit.

Jack put his hand suddenly over his wild lil' fuckin eyes n' then took it away. Da picture didn't chizzle fo' realz. A soft sigh, too on tha down-low ta be a groan, escaped his muthafuckin ass. In his fuckin lil' drankin minutes dat schmoooove muthafucka had always been afraid of suttin' like dis happening. But when you was a heavy drinker you called it tha DTs-phat oldschool Ray Milland up in Lost Weekend, seein tha bugs comin outta tha walls.

What did you call it when you was cold sober?

Da question was meant ta be rhetorical yo, but his crazy-ass mind answered dat shit

(you call it insanity)

nevertheless.

Starin all up in tha hedge muthafuckas, he realized suttin' had chizzled while dat schmoooove muthafucka had his hand over his wild lil' fuckin eyes. Da dawg had moved closer n' shit. No longer crouching, it seemed ta be up in a hustlin posture, haunches flexed, one front leg forward, tha other back. Da hedge grill yawned wider, tha pruned sticks looked sharp n' vicious fo' realz. And now he fancied his schmoooove ass could peep faint eye indentations up in tha greenery as well. Lookin at his muthafuckin ass.

Why do they gotta be trimmed, biatch? tha pimpin' muthafucka thought hysterically. They're perfect.

Another soft sound. Dude involuntarily backed up a step when he looked all up in tha lions. One of tha two on tha right seemed ta have drawn slightly ahead of tha other n' shit. Its head was lowered. One paw had jacked almost all tha way ta tha low fence. Dear God, what tha fuck next?

(next it leaps over n' gobblez you up like suttin' up in a evil nursery fable)

Dat shiznit was like dat game they had played when they was kids, red light. One thug was "it," n' while tha pimpin' muthafucka turned his back n' counted ta ten, tha other playas crept forward. When "it" gots ta ten, da thug whirled round n' if his schmoooove ass caught mah playas moving, they was outta tha game. Da others remained frozen up in statue postures until "it" turned his back n' counted again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. They gots closer n' closer, n' at last, somewhere between five n' ten, you would feel a hand on yo' back...

Gravel rattled on tha path.

Dude jerked his head round ta peep tha dawg n' dat shiznit was halfway down tha pathway, just behind tha lions now, its grill wide n' yawning. Before, it had only been a hedge clipped up in tha general shape of a thugged-out dog, suttin' dat lost all definizzle when you gots up close ta dat shit. But now Jack could peep dat it had been clipped ta be lookin like a German shepherd, n' shepherdz could be mean. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Yo ass could train shepherdz ta kill.

A low rustlin sound.

Da lion on tha left had advanced all tha way ta tha fence now; its muzzle was touchin tha boards. Well shiiiit, it seemed ta be grinnin at his muthafuckin ass. Jack backed up another two steps yo. His head was thuddin crazily n' his schmoooove ass could feel tha dry rasp of his breath up in his cold-ass throat. Now tha buffalo had moved, circlin ta tha right, behind n' round tha rabbit. Da head was lowered, tha chronic hedge horns pointin at his muthafuckin ass. Da thang was, you couldn't peep all of dem wild-ass muthafuckas. Not all at once.

Dude fuckin started ta cook up a whinin sound, unaware up in his fuckin locked concentration dat da thug was makin any sound at all yo. His eyes darted from one hedge creature ta tha next, tryin ta peep dem move. Da wind gusted, bustin a horny rattlin sound up in tha close-matted branches. What kind of sound would there be if they gots him, biatch? But of course he knew fo' realz. A snapping, rending, breakin sound. Well shiiiit, it would be-

(no no NO NO I WILL NOT BELIEVE THIS NOT AT ALL!)

Dude clapped his handz over his wild lil' fuckin eyes, clutchin at his hair, his wild lil' forehead, his cold-ass throbbin templez fo' realz. And da perved-out muthafucka stood like dat fo' a long-ass time, dread buildin until his schmoooove ass could stand it no longer n' he pulled his handz away wit a cold-ass lil cry like a muthafucka.

By tha puttin chronic tha dawg was chillin up, as if beggin fo' a scrap. Da buffalo was gazin wit disinterest back toward tha roque court, as it had been when Jack had come down wit tha clippers. Da rabbit stood on its hind legs, ears up ta catch tha faintest sound, freshly clipped belly exposed. Da lions, rooted tha fuck into place, stood beside tha path.

Dude stood frozen fo' a long-ass time, tha harsh breath up in his cold-ass throat finally slowin yo. Dude reached fo' his blunts n' shook four of dem up onto tha gravel yo. Dude stooped down n' picked dem up, groped fo' them, never takin his wild lil' fuckin eyes from tha topiary fo' fear tha muthafuckas would begin ta move again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude picked dem up, stuffed three carelessly back tha fuck into tha pack, n' lit tha fourth fo' realz. Afta two deep drags da ruffneck dropped it n' crushed it up yo. Dude went ta tha hedge-clipper n' picked it up.

"I'm straight-up tired," be holla'd, n' now it seemed aiiight ta rap up loud. Well shiiiit, it didn't seem wild-ass at all. "I've been under a strain. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da wasps... tha play.. fo' realz. Al callin me like dis shit. But it's all right."

Dude fuckin started ta trudge back up ta tha hotel. Part of his crazy-ass mind tugged fretfully at him, tried ta make his ass detour round tha hedge muthafuckas yo, but da thug went directly up tha gravel path, all up in dem wild-ass muthafuckas fo' realz. A faint breeze rattled all up in them, dat was all yo. Dude had imagined tha whole thang yo. Dude had had a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shitty-ass scare but dat shiznit was over now, nahmeean?

In tha Overlook's kitchen he paused ta take two Excedrin n' then went downstairs n' looked at papers until dat schmoooove muthafucka heard tha dim sound of tha hotel truck rattlin tha fuck into tha driveway yo. Dude went up ta hook up dem wild-ass muthafuckas yo. Dude felt all right yo. Dude saw no need ta mention his hallucination. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. He'd had a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shitty-ass scare but dat shiznit was over now, nahmeean?

Chapta 24. Snow
Dat shiznit was dusk.

They stood on tha porch up in tha fadin light, Jack up in tha middle, his fuckin left arm round Danny's shouldaz n' his bangin right arm round Wendy's waist. Together they peeped it as tha decision was taken outta they hands.

Da sky had been straight-up clouded over by two-thirty n' it had begun ta snow a minute later, n' dis time you didn't need a weatherman ta rap dat shiznit was straight-up snow, no flurry dat was goin ta melt or blow away when tha evenin wind started ta whoop fo' realz. At first it had fallen up in perfectly straight lines, buildin up a snowcover dat coated every last muthafuckin thang evenly yo, but now, a minute afta it had started, tha wind had begun ta blow from tha northwest n' tha snow had begun ta drift against tha porch n' tha sidez of tha Overlook's driveway. Beyond tha groundz tha highway had disappeared under a even blanket of white. Da hedge muthafuckas was also gone yo, but when Wendy n' Danny had gotten home, dat freaky freaky biatch had commended his ass on tha phat thang dat schmoooove muthafucka had done. Do you be thinkin so, biatch? dat schmoooove muthafucka had asked, n' holla'd no mo' n' mo' n' mo'. Now tha hedges was buried under amorphous white cloaks.

Curiously, all of dem was thankin different thoughts but feelin tha same emotion: relief. Da bridge had been crossed.

"Will it eva be spring?" Wendy murmured.

Jack squeezed her tighter n' shit. "Before you know dat shit. What do you say we go up in n' have some supper, biatch? It's cold up here."

Bitch smiled. All afternoon Jack had seemed distant and... well, odd. Now da perved-out muthafucka sounded mo' like his thugged-out aiiight self. "Fine by mah dirty ass yo. How tha fuck bout you, Danny?"

"Sure."

So they went up in together, leavin tha wind ta build ta tha low-pitched scream dat would go on all night-a sound they would git ta know well. Flakez of snow swirled n' danced across tha porch. Da Overlook faced it as it had fo' nearly three quartaz of a cold-ass lil century, its darkened windows now bearded wit snow, indifferent ta tha fact dat dat shiznit was now cut off from tha ghetto. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Or possibly dat shiznit was pleased wit tha prospect. Inside its shell tha three of dem went bout they early evenin routine, like microbes trapped up in tha intestine of a monster.

Chapta 25. Inside 217
A week n' a half lata two feet of snow lay white n' crisp n' even on tha groundz of tha Overlook Hotel. Da hedge menagerie was buried up ta its haunches; tha rabbit, frozen on its hind legs, seemed ta be risin from a white pool. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Some of tha drifts was over five feet deep. Da wind was constantly changin them, sculptin dem tha fuck into sinuous, dunelike shapes. Twice Jack had snowshoed clumsily round ta tha shiznit shed fo' his shovel ta clear tha porch, tha third time da perved-out muthafucka shrugged, simply cleared a path all up in tha towerin drift lyin against tha door, n' let Danny amuse his dirty ass by sleddin ta tha right n' left of tha path. Da truly heroic drifts lay against tha Overlook's westside side; a shitload of dem towered ta a height of twenty feet, n' beyond dem tha ground was scoured bare ta tha grass by tha constant windflow. Da first-floor windows was covered, n' tha view from tha dinin room which Jack had so admired on closin dizzle was now no mo' bangin than a view of a funky-ass blank porno screen. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Their beeper had been up fo' tha last eight days, n' tha CB radio up in Ullman's crib was now they only communications link wit tha outside ghetto. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass.

It snowed every last muthafuckin dizzle now, sometimes only brief flurries dat powdered tha glitterin snow crust, sometimes fo' real, tha low whistle of tha wind crankin up ta a biatchish shriek dat made tha oldschool hotel rock n' groan alarmingly even up in its deep cradle of snow. Night temperatures had not gotten above 10, n' although tha thermometa by tha kitchen steez entrizzle sometimes gots as high as 25 up in tha early afternoons, tha steady knife edge of tha wind juiced it up uncomfortable ta go up without a ski mask. But they all did go up on tha minutes when tha sun shone, probably bustin two setz of threadz n' mittens on over they gloves. Gettin up was almost a cold-ass lil compulsive thang; tha hotel was circled wit tha double track of Danny's Flexible Flyer n' shit. Da permutations was nearly endless: Danny ridin while his thugged-out lil' muthafathas pulled; Daddy ridin n' bustin up while Wendy n' Danny tried ta pull (it was just possible fo' dem ta pull his ass on tha icy crust, n' flatly impossible when powder covered it); Danny n' Mommy riding; Wendy ridin by her muthafuckin ass while her menfolk pulled n' puffed white vapor like drayhorses, pretendin dat biiiiatch was heavier than dat biiiiatch was. They laughed a pimped out deal on these sled excursions round tha crib yo, but tha whoopin n' impersonal voice of tha wind, so big-ass n' hollowly sincere, made they laughta seem tinny n' forced.

They had peeped caribou tracks up in tha snow n' once tha caribou theyselves, a crew of five standin motionlessly below tha securitizzle fence. They had all taken turns wit Jack's Zeiss-Ikon binoculars ta peep dem better, n' lookin at dem had given Wendy a weird, unreal feeling: they was standin leg-deep up in tha snow dat covered tha highway, n' it came ta her dat between now n' tha sprang thaw, tha road belonged mo' ta tha caribou than it did ta dem wild-ass muthafuckas. Now tha thangs dat pimps had made up here was neutralized. Da caribou understood that, da hoe believed. Biatch had put tha binoculars down n' had holla'd suttin' bout startin lunch n' up in tha kitchen dat freaky freaky biatch had cried a lil, tryin ta rid her muthafuckin ass of tha wack pent-up feelin dat sometimes fell tha fuck on her like a large, pressin hand over her ass. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch thought of tha caribou fo'sho. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch thought of tha wasps Jack had put up on tha steez entrizzle platform, under tha Pyrex bowl, ta freeze.

There was nuff snowshoes hung from nails up in tha shiznit shed, n' Jack found a pair ta fit each of them, although Danny's pair was like a lil' bit outsized. Jack did well wit dem wild-ass muthafuckas fo' realz. Although dat schmoooove muthafucka had not snowshoed since his boyhood up in Berlin, New Hampshire, he retaught his dirty ass doggystyle. Wendy didn't care much fo' it-even fifteen minutez of trampin round on tha outsized laced paddlez made her hairy-ass legs n' anklez ache outrageously-but Danny was intrigued n' hustlin hard ta pick up tha knack yo. Dude still fell tha fuck often yo, but lack was pleased wit his thugged-out lil' progress yo. Dude holla'd dat by February Danny would be skippin circlez round both of dem wild-ass muthafuckas.



This dizzle was overcast, n' by noon tha sky had already begun ta spit snow. Da radio was promisin another eight ta twelve inches n' chantin hosannas ta Precipitation, dat pimped out god of Colorado skiers. Wendy, chillin up in tha bedroom n' knittin a scarf, thought ta her muthafuckin ass dat she knew exactly what tha fuck tha skiers could do wit all dat snow. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch knew exactly where they could put dat shit.

Jack was up in tha cellar yo. Dude had gone down ta check tha furnace n' boiler-such checks had become a ritual wit his ass since tha snow had closed dem in-and afta satisfyin his dirty ass dat every last muthafuckin thang was goin well dat schmoooove muthafucka had wandered all up in tha arch, screwed tha lightbulb on, n' had seated his dirty ass up in a oldschool n' cobwebby camp chair dat schmoooove muthafucka had found. Dude was leafin all up in tha oldschool recordz n' papers, constantly wipin his crazy-ass grill wit his handkerchizzle as da ruffneck did so. Confinement had leached his skin of its autumn tan, n' as da perved-out muthafucka sat hunched over tha yellowed, cracklin sheets, his bangin reddish-blond afro tumblin untidily over his wild lil' forehead, he looked slightly lunatic yo. Dude had found some odd thangs tucked up in among tha invoices, billz of lading, receipts, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. Disquietin thangs fo' realz. A bloody strip of sheetin fo' realz. A dismembered teddy bear dat seemed ta done been slashed ta pieces fo' realz. A crumpled shizzle of violet ladies' stationery, a pimp of perfume still clingin ta it beneath tha musk of age, a note begun n' left unfinished up in faded blue ink: "Dearest Tommy, I can't be thinkin so well up here as I'd hoped, bout our asses I mean, of course, whoz ass else, biatch? Ha yo. Ha. Things keep gettin up in tha way. I've had strange trips bout thangs goin bump up in tha night, can you believe dat and" That was all. Da note was dated June 27, 1934 yo. Dude found a hand puppet dat seemed ta be either a witch or a warlock... suttin' wit long teeth n' a pointy hat, at any rate. Well shiiiit, it had been improbably tucked between a funky-ass bundle of natural-gas receipts n' a funky-ass bundle of receipts fo' Vichy gin n juice n' shiznit fo' realz. And suttin' dat seemed ta be a poem, scribbled on tha back of a menu up in dark pencil: "Medoc/are you here?/I've been chillwalkin again, mah dear. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. /Da plants is movin under tha rug." No date on tha menu, n' no name on tha poem, if dat shiznit was a poem. Elusive yo, but fascinating. Well shiiiit, it seemed ta his ass dat these thangs was like pieces up in a jigsaw, thangs dat would eventually fit together if his schmoooove ass could find tha right linkin pieces fo' realz. And so he kept looking, jumpin n' wipin his fuckin lips every last muthafuckin time tha furnace roared tha fuck into game behind his muthafuckin ass.


 * * * Danny was standin outside Room 217 again.

Da passkey was up in his thugged-out lil' pocket yo. Dude was starin all up in tha door wit a kind of sticky-icky-ickyged avidity, n' his upper body seemed ta twitch n' jiggle beneath his wild lil' flannel shirt yo. Dude was hummin softly n' tunelessly.

Dude hadn't wanted ta come here, not afta tha fire hose yo. Dude was scared ta come here, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho yo. Dude was scared dat dat schmoooove muthafucka had taken tha passkey again, disobeyin his wild lil' father.

Dude had wanted ta come here, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. Curiosity

(killed tha cat; satisfaction brought his ass back)

was like a cold-ass lil constant fishhook up in his dome, a kind of naggin siren cold lil' woo wop dat would not be appeased. And hadn't Mista Muthafuckin yo. Hallorann holla'd, "I don't be thinkin there's anythang here dat can hurt you"?

(Yo ass promised.)

(Promises was made ta be broken.)

Dude jumped at dis shit. Dat shiznit was as if dat thought had come from outside, insectile, buzzing, softly cajoling.

(Promises was made ta be fucked up mah dear redrum, ta be broken. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. splintered. shattered. hammered apart. FORE!)

His straight-up trippin hummin broke tha fuck into low, atonal song: "Lou, Lou, skip ta m' Lou, skip ta m' Lou mah daaarlin..."

Hadn't Mista Muthafuckin yo. Hallorann been right, biatch? Hadn't dat been, up in tha end, tha reason why dat schmoooove muthafucka had kept silent n' allowed tha snow ta close dem in?

Just close yo' eyes n' it is ghon be gone.

What dat schmoooove muthafucka had peeped up in tha Presidential Sweet had gone away fo' realz. And tha snake had only been a gangbangin' fire hose dat had fallen onto tha rug. Yes, even tha blood up in tha Presidential Sweet had been harmless, suttin' old, suttin' dat had happened long before da thug started doin thangs or even thought of, suttin' dat was done with. Like a porno dat only his schmoooove ass could see. There was nothing, straight-up nothing, up in dis hotel dat could hurt him, n' if dat schmoooove muthafucka had ta prove dat ta his dirty ass by goin tha fuck into dis room, shouldn't da ruffneck do so?

"Lou, Lou, skip ta m'Lou..."

(Curiositizzle capped tha pussaaaaay mah dear redrum, redrum mah dear, satisfaction brought his ass back safe n' sound, from toes ta crown; from head ta ground da thug was safe n' sound. Dude knew dat dem thangs)

(are like freaky pictures, they can't hurt you yo, but oh mah god)

(what big-ass teeth you have grandma n' is dat a wolf up in a BLUEBEARD suit or a BLUEBEARD up in a wolf suit n' i'm so)

(glad you axed cuz curiositizzle capped dat pussaaaaay n' dat shiznit was tha HOPE of satisfaction dat brought him)

up tha hall, treadin softly over tha blue n' twistin jungle carpet yo. Dude had stopped by tha fire extinguisher, had put tha brass nozzle back up in tha frame, n' then had poked it repeatedly wit his wild lil' finger, ass thumping, whispering: "Come on n' hurt mah dirty ass. Come on n' hurt me, you skanky prick. Can't do it, can yo slick ass, biatch? Huh, biatch? You're not a god damn thang but a cold-ass lil skanky fire hose. Can't do nothin but lie there, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. Come on, come on!" Dude had felt crazy wit bravado fo' realz. And not a god damn thang had happened. Dat shiznit was only a hose afta all, only canvas n' brass, you could hack it ta pieces n' it would never complain, never twist n' jerk n' bleed chronic slime all over tha blue carpet, cuz dat shiznit was only a hose, not a nozzle n' not a rose, not glass buttons or satin bows, not a snake up in a chilly doze... n' dat schmoooove muthafucka had hurried on, had hurried on cuz da thug was

("late, I'm late," holla'd tha white rabbit.)

the white rabbit. Yes yes y'all. Now there was a white rabbit up by tha playground, once it had been chronic but now dat shiznit was white, as if suttin' had shocked it repeatedly on tha snowy, windy nights n' turned it old...

Danny took tha passkey from his thugged-out lil' pocket n' slid it tha fuck into tha lock.

"Lou, Lou..."

(the white rabbit had been on its way ta a cold-ass lil croquet jam ta tha Red Biatch's croquet jam storks fo' mallets hedgehogs fo' halls)

Dude touched tha key, let his wild lil' fingers wander over it yo. His head felt dry n' sick yo. Dude turned tha key n' tha tumblaz thumped back smoothly.

(OFF WITH HIS HEAD! OFF WITH HIS HEAD! OFF WITH HIS HEAD!)

(this game isn't croquet though tha mallets is too short dis game is)

(WHACK-BOOM! Straight all up in tha wicket.)

(OFF WITH HIS HEEEEEAAAAAAAD-)

Danny pushed tha door open. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Well shiiiit, it swung smoothly, without a cold-ass lil creak yo. Dude was standin just outside a big-ass combination bedsittin room, n' although tha snow had not reached up dis far-the highest drifts was still a gangbangin' foot below tha second-floor windows-the room was dark cuz Daddy had closed all tha shuttas on tha westside exposure two weeks ago.

Dude stood up in tha doorway, fumbled ta his bangin right, n' found tha switch plate. Two bulbs up in a overhead cut-glass fixture came on. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Danny stepped further up in n' looked around. Da rug was deep n' soft, a on tha down-low rose color. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Soothang fo' realz. A double bed wit a white coverlet fo' realz. A freestylin desk

(Pray tell me: Why be a raven like a gangbangin' freestylin desk?)

by tha big-ass shuttered window. Durin tha season tha Constant Writer

(havin a straight-up dope time, wish you was fear)

would gotz a pimpin' view of tha mountains ta describe ta tha folks back home.

Dude stepped further in. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Nothang here, not a god damn thang at all. Only a empty room, cold cuz Daddy was heatin tha eastside win todizzle. It make me wanna hollar playa! A bureau fo'sho fo' realz. A closet, its door open ta reveal a cold-ass lil clutch of hotel hangers, tha kind you can't steal. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack fo' realz. A Gideon Bizzle on a endtable. To his fuckin left was tha bathroom door, a gangbangin' full-length mirror on it reflectin his own white-faced image. That door was ajar and-

Dude peeped his fuckin lil' double nod slowly.

Yes, that's where it was, whatever it was. In there, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. In tha bathroom yo. His double strutted forward, as if ta escape tha glass. Well shiiiit, it put its hand out, pressed it against his own. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Then it fell tha fuck away at a angle as tha bathroom door swung open. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude looked in.

A long room, old-fashioned, like a Pullman car. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Tiny white hexagonal tilez on tha floor fo' realz. At tha far end, a toilet wit tha lid up fo' realz. At tha right, a washbasin n' another mirror above it, tha kind dat hides a medicine cabinet. To tha left, a big-ass white tub on claw feet, tha shower curtain pulled closed. Danny stepped tha fuck into tha bathroom n' strutted toward tha tub dreamily, as if propelled from outside his dirty ass, as if dis whole thang was one of tha trips Tony had brought him, dat da thug would like peep suttin' sick when he pulled tha shower curtain back, suttin' Daddy had forgotten or Mommy had lost, suttin' dat would make dem both happy-

So he pulled tha shower curtain back.

Da biatch up in tha tub had been dead fo' a long-ass time. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch was bloated n' purple, her gas-filled belly risin outta tha cold, ice-rimmed wata like some fleshy island. Her eyes was fixed on Danny's, glassy n' huge, like marbles. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch was grinning, her purple lips pulled back up in a grimace yo. Her breasts lolled. Her pubic afro floated. This type'a shiznit happens all tha time yo. Her handz was frozen on tha knurled porcelain sidez of tha tub like crab claws.

Danny shrieked. But tha sound never escaped his fuckin lips; turnin inward n' inward, it fell tha fuck down up in his fuckin lil' darknizz like a stone up in a well yo. Dude took a single blunderin step backward, bearin his heels clack on tha white hexagonal tiles, n' all up in tha same moment his urine broke, spillin effortlessly outta his muthafuckin ass.

Da biatch was chillin up.

Still grinning, her big-ass marble eyes fixed on him, dat biiiiatch was chillin up yo. Her dead palms made squitterin noises on tha porcelain. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Her breasts swayed like ancient cracked punchin bags. There was tha minute sound of breakin ice shards. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch was not breathing. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch was a cold-ass lil corpse, n' dead long years.

Danny turned n' ran. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Boltin all up in tha bathroom door, his wild lil' fuckin eyes startin from they sockets, his afro on end like tha afro of a hedgehog bout ta be turned tha fuck into a sacrificial

(croquet, biatch? or rogue?)

ball, his crazy-ass grill open n' soundless yo. Dude ran full-tilt tha fuck into tha outside door of 217, which was now closed. Dude fuckin started hammerin on it, far beyond realizin dat dat shiznit was unlocked, n' dat schmoooove muthafucka had only ta turn tha knob ta let his dirty ass up yo. His grill pealed forth deafenin screams dat was beyond human auditory range yo. Dude could only hammer on tha door n' hear tha dead biatch comin fo' him, bloated belly, dry hair, outstretched hands-suttin' dat had lain slain up in dat tub fo' like years, embalmed there up in magic.

Da door would not open, would not, would not, would not.

And then tha voice of Dick Hallorann came ta him, so sudden n' unexpected, so calm, dat his fuckin locked vocal cordz opened n' his thugged-out lil' punk-ass fuckin started ta cry weakly-not wit fear but wit pimped relief.

(I don't be thinkin they can hurt you, biatch... they're like pictures up in a funky-ass book... close yo' eyes n' they'll he gone.)

His eyelidz snapped down. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. His handz curled tha fuck into balls yo. His shouldaz hunched wit tha effort of his concentration:

(Nothang there not a god damn thang there not there at all NOTHING THERE THERE IS NOTHING!)

Time passed. And da thug was just beginnin ta chillax, just beginnin ta realize dat tha door must be unlocked n' his schmoooove ass could go, when tha years-damp, bloated, fish-smellin handz closed softly round his cold-ass throat n' da thug was turned implacably round ta stare tha fuck into dat dead n' purple face.

Chapta 26. Dreamland
Knittin made her chilly. Todizzle even Bartok would have made her chilly, n' it wasn't Bartok on tha lil phonograph, dat shiznit was Bach yo. Her handz grew slower n' slower, n' all up in tha time her lil hustla was makin tha acquaintizzle of Room 217's longterm resident, Wendy was asleep wit her knittin on her lap. Da yarn n' needlez rose up in tha slow time of her breathang yo. Her chill was deep n' her dope ass did not dream.



Jack Torrizzle had fallen asleep too yo, but his chill was light n' uneasy, populated by trips dat seemed too vivid ta be mere dreams-they was certainly mo' vivid than any trips dat schmoooove muthafucka had eva had before.

His eyes had begun ta git heavy as he leafed all up in packetz of gin n juice bills, a hundred ta a packet, seemingly tenz of thousandz all together n' shit. Yet he gave each one a cold-ass lil cursory glance, afraid dat by not bein thorough he might miss exactly tha piece of Overlookiana he needed ta make tha mystic connection dat da thug was shizzle must be here somewhere, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho yo. Dude felt like a playa wit a juice cord up in one hand, gropin round a thugged-out dark n' unfamiliar room fo' a socket. If his schmoooove ass could find it da thug would be rewarded wit a view of wonders.

Dude had come ta grips wit Al Shockley's beeper call n' his bangin request; his strange experience up in tha playground had helped his ass ta do dis shit. That had been too damned close ta some kind of breakdown, n' da thug was convinced dat dat shiznit was his crazy-ass mind up in revolt against Al's high-goddam-handed request dat his schmoooove ass chuck his book project. Well shiiiit, it had maybe been a signal dat his own sense of self-respect could only be pushed so far before disintegratin entirely yo. Dude would write tha book. If it meant tha end of his thugged-out association wit Al Shockley, dat would gotta be yo. Dude would write tha hotel's biography, write it straight from tha shoulder, n' tha introduction would be his hallucination dat tha topiary muthafuckas had moved. Da title would be uninspired but workable: Strange Resort, Da Rap of tha Overlook Hotel. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Straight from tha shoulder, fo'sho yo, but it would not be freestyled vindictively, up in any effort ta git back at Al or Stuart Ullman or George Hatfield or his wild lil' daddy (miserable, bullyin faded dat dat schmoooove muthafucka had been) or any suckas, fo' dat matter n' shiznit yo. Dude would write it cuz tha Overlook had enchanted him-could any other explanation be all kindsa simple or so true, biatch? Dude would write it fo' tha reason he felt dat all pimped out literature, fiction n' nonfiction, was written: truth comes out, up in tha end it always comes up yo. Dude would write it cuz he felt dat schmoooove muthafucka had to.

Five hundred gals whole milk. One hundred gals skim milk. Pd. Bizzleed ta acc't. Three hundred pts orange juice. Pd.

Dude slipped down further up in his chair, still holdin a cold-ass lil clutch of tha receipts yo, but his wild lil' fuckin eyes no longer lookin at what tha fuck was printed there, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. They had come unfocused. His lidz was slow n' heavy yo. His mind had slipped from tha Overlook ta his wild lil' father, whoz ass had been a thug nurse all up in tha Berlin Communitizzle Hospitizzle. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack. Big man. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. A fat playa whoz ass had towered ta six feet two inches, dat schmoooove muthafucka had been talla than Jack even when Jack gots his wild lil' full growth of six feet even-not dat tha oldschool playa had still been round then. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. "Runt of tha litter," da thug would say, n' then cuff Jack gangbanginly n' laugh. There had been two other brothers, both talla than they father, n' Becky, whoz ass at five-ten had only been two inches shorta than Jack n' talla than he fo' most of they childhood.

His relationshizzle wit his wild lil' daddy had been like tha unfurlin of some flower of dope potential, which, when wholly opened, turned up ta be blighted inside. Until dat schmoooove muthafucka had been seven dat schmoooove muthafucka had loved tha tall, big-bellied playa uncritically n' straight fuckin up in spite of tha spankings, tha black-and-blues, tha occasionizzle black eye.

Dude could remember velvet summer nights, tha doggy den on tha fuckin' down-low, crazy oldschool brutha Brett up wit his wild lil' freakadelic girl, middle brutha Mike studyin something, Becky n' they mutha up in tha livin room, watchin suttin' on tha balky oldschool TV; n' da thug would sit up in tha hall dressed up in a pajama singlet n' not a god damn thang else, ostensibly playin wit his cold-ass trucks, straight-up waitin fo' tha moment when tha silence would be fucked up by tha door swingin open wit a big-ass bang, tha bellow of his wild lil' father's welcome when da perved-out muthafucka saw Jacky was waiting, his own aiiight squeal up in answer as dis big-ass playa came down tha hall, his thugged-out lil' pink scalp glowin beneath his crewcut up in tha glow of tha hall light. In dat light he always looked like some soft n' flappin oversized pimp up in his hospitizzle whites, tha hoodie always untucked (and sometimes bloody), tha baggy-ass pants cuffs droopin down over tha black shoes.

His daddy would sweep his ass tha fuck into his thugged-out arms n' Jacky would be propelled deliriously upward, so fast it seemed his schmoooove ass could feel air heat settlin against his skull like a cold-ass lil cap made outta lead, up n' up, both of dem bustin up like a biatch "Elevator playa! Elevator!"; n' there had been nights when his wild lil' daddy up in his fuckin lil' fadedennizz had not stopped tha upward lift of his slabmuscled arms soon enough n' Jacky had gone right over his wild lil' father's flattopped head like a human projectile ta crash-land on tha hall floor behind his fuckin lil' dad. But on other nights his wild lil' daddy would only sweep his ass tha fuck into a gigglin ecstasy, all up in tha unit of air where brew hung round his wild lil' father's grill like a mist of raindrops, ta be twisted n' turned n' shaken like a bustin up rag, n' finally ta be set down on his wild lil' feet, hiccuppin wit erection.

Da receipts slipped from his bangin chillaxin hand n' seesawed down all up in tha air ta land lazily on tha floor; his wild lil' fuckin eyelids, which had settled shut wit his wild lil' father's image tattooed on they backs like stereopticon images, opened a lil bit n' then slipped back down again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude twitched a lil. Consciousness, like tha receipts, like autumn aspen leaves, seesawed lazily downward.

That had been tha straight-up original gangsta phase of his bangin relationshizzle wit his wild lil' father, n' as dat shiznit was drawin ta its end dat schmoooove muthafucka had become aware dat Becky n' his brothers, all of dem older, hated tha daddy n' dat they mother, a nondescript biatch whoz ass rarely was rappin above a mutter, only suffered his ass cuz her Catholic upbringin holla'd dat she must. In dem minutes it had not seemed strange ta Jack dat tha daddy won all his thugged-out arguments wit his fuckin lil pimps by use of his wild lil' fists, n' it had not seemed strange dat his own ludd should go hand-in-hand wit his wild lil' fear: fear of tha elevator game which might end up in a splinterin crash on any given night; fear dat his wild lil' father's bearish phat humor on his fuckin lil' dizzle off might suddenly chizzle ta boarish bellowin n' tha smack of his "phat right hand"; n' sometimes, he remembered, dat schmoooove muthafucka had even been afraid dat his wild lil' father's shadow might fall over his ass while da thug was at play. Dat shiznit was near tha end of dis phase dat his thugged-out lil' punk-ass fuckin started ta notice dat Brett never brought his fuckin lil' dates home, or Mike n' Becky they chums.

Ludd fuckin started ta curdle at nine, when his wild lil' daddy put his crazy-ass mutha tha fuck into tha hospitizzle wit his cane yo. Dude had begun ta carry tha cane a year earlier, when a cold-ass lil hoopty accident had left his ass lame fo' realz. Afta dat da thug was never without it, long n' black n' thick n' gold-headed. Now, dozing, Jack's body twitched up in a remembered cringe all up in tha sound it made up in tha air, a murderous swish, n' its heavy crack against tha wall... or against flesh yo. Dude had beaten they mutha fo' no phat reason at all, suddenly n' without warning. They had been all up in tha supper table. Da cane had been standin by his chair. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Dat shiznit was a Sundizzle night, tha end of a three-dizzle weekend fo' Daddy, a weekend which dat schmoooove muthafucka had boozed away up in his usual inimitable style. Roast chicken. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Peas. Mashed potatoes. Daddy all up in tha head of tha table, his thugged-out lil' plate heaped high, snoozin or nearly snoozin yo. His mutha passin plates fo' realz. And suddenly Daddy had been wide awake, his wild lil' fuckin eyes set deeply tha fuck into they fat eyesockets, glitterin wit a kind of stupid, evil petulance. They flickered from one gangmember of tha crew ta tha next, n' tha vein up in tha centa of his wild lil' forehead was standin up prominently, always a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shitty-ass sign. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. One of his big-ass freckled handz had dropped ta tha gold knob of his cane, caressin it yo. Dude holla'd suttin' bout coffee-to dis dizzle Jack was shizzle it had been "coffee" dat his wild lil' daddy holla'd. Momma had opened her grill ta answer n' then tha cane was whickerin all up in tha air, smashin against her face. Blood spurted from her nose. Becky screamed. Momma's spectaclez dropped tha fuck into her gravy. Da cane had been drawn back, had come down again, dis time on top of her head, splittin tha scalp. Momma had dropped ta tha floor yo. Dude had been outta his chair n' round ta where she lay dazed on tha carpet, brandishin tha cane, movin wit a gangbangin' fat dudez grotesque speed n' agility, lil eyes flashing, jowls quiverin as da perved-out muthafucka was rappin ta her just as dat schmoooove muthafucka had always spoken ta his fuckin lil pimps durin such outbursts, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. "Now. Now by Christ. I guess you'll take yo' medicine now, nahmeean, biatch? Goddam puppy. Whelp. Come on n' take yo' medicine." Da cane had gone up n' down on her seven mo' times before Brett n' Mike gots hold of him, dragged his ass away, wrestled tha cane outta his hand. Jack

(lil Jacky now da thug was lil Jacky now dozin n' mumblin on a cold-ass lil cobwebby camp chair while tha furnace roared tha fuck into hollow game behind him)

knew exactly how tha fuck nuff blows it had been cuz each soft whump against his crazy-ass mother's body had been engraved on his crazy-ass memory like tha irrationizzle swipe of a cold-ass lil chisel on stone. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Seven whumps. No more, no less yo. Dude n' Becky crying, unbelieving, lookin at they mother's spectaclez lyin up in her mashed potatoes, one cracked lens smeared wit gravy. Brett shoutin at Daddy from tha back hall, spittin some lyrics ta his ass he'd bust a cap up in his ass if he moved. And Daddy sayin over n' over: "Damn lil puppy. Damn lil whelp. Give me mah cane, you damn lil pup. Give it ta mah dirty ass." Brett brandishin it hysterically, sayin fo'sho, fo'sho, I'll give it ta you, just you move a lil bit n' I'll hit you wit all you want n' two extra. I'll hit you wit plenty. Momma gettin slowly ta her feet, dazed, her grill already puffed n' swellin like a oldschool tire wit too much air up in it, bleedin up in four or five different places, n' dat freaky freaky biatch had holla'd a shitty thang, like tha only thang Momma had eva holla'd which Jacky could recall word fo' word: "Who's gots tha newspaper, biatch? Yo crazy-ass daddy wants tha funnies. Put ya muthafuckin choppers up if ya feel dis! Is it drizzlin yet?" And then her big-ass booty sank ta her knees again, her afro hangin up in her puffed n' bleedin face. Mike callin tha doctor, babblin tha fuck into tha phone. Could his schmoooove ass come right away, biatch? Dat shiznit was they mutha n' shit. Fuck dat shit, his schmoooove ass couldn't say what tha fuck tha shiznit was, not over tha phone, not over a jam line his schmoooove ass couldn't. Just come. Da doctor came n' took Momma away ta tha hospitizzle where Daddy had hit dat shiznit all of his thugged-out adult game. Daddy, sobered up some (or like only wit tha wack cunnin of any hardpressed animal), holla'd all up in tha doctor dat freaky freaky biatch had fallen downstairs. There was blood on tha tablecloth cuz dat schmoooove muthafucka had tried ta wipe her dear grill wit it yo. Had her glasses flown all tha way all up in tha livin room n' tha fuck into tha dinin room ta land up in her mashed potatoes n' gravy, biatch? tha doctor axed wit a kind of horrid, grinnin sarcasm. Is dat what tha fuck happened, Mark, biatch? I have heard of folks whoz ass can git a radio station on they gold fillings n' I have peeped a playa git blasted between tha eyes n' live ta tell bout it yo, but dat be a freshly smoked up one on mah dirty ass. Daddy had merely shook his head n' holla'd da ruffneck didn't know; they must have fallen off her grill when his thugged-out lil' punk-ass brought her all up in tha dinin room. Da four lil pimps had been stunned ta silence by tha calm stupendousnizz of tha lie. Four minutes lata Brett quit his thang up in tha mill n' joined tha Army. Jack had always felt dat shiznit was not just tha sudden n' irrationizzle whoopin his wild lil' daddy had administered all up in tha dinner table but tha fact that, up in tha hospitizzle, they mutha had corroborated they father's rap while holdin tha hand of tha parish priest. Revolted, Brett had left dem ta whatever might come yo. Dude had been capped up in Dong Ho province up in 1965, tha year when Jack Torrance, undergraduate, had joined tha actizzle college agitation ta end tha war yo. Dude had waved his brother's bloody hoodie at rallies dat was mo' n' mo' n' mo' well attended yo, but dat shiznit was not Brett's grill dat hung before his wild lil' fuckin eyes when da perved-out muthafucka spoke-it was tha grill of his crazy-ass mother, a thugged-out dazed, uncomprehendin face, his crazy-ass mutha saying: "Who's gots tha newspaper?"

Mike escaped three muthafuckin years lata when Jack was twelve-he went ta UNH on a hefty Merit Scholarshizzle fo' realz. A year afta dat they daddy took a dirt nap of a sudden, massive stroke which occurred while da thug was preppin a patient fo' surgery yo. Dude had collapsed up in his wild lil' flappin n' untucked hospitizzle whites, dead possibly even before dat schmoooove muthafucka hit tha industrial black-and-red hospitizzle tiles, n' three minutes lata tha playa whoz ass had dominated Jacky's game, tha irrationizzle white pimp-god, was under ground.

Da stone read Mark Anthony Torrance, Bangin Father n' shit. To dat Jack would have added one line: Dude Knew How tha fuck ta Play Elevator.

There had been a pimped out lot of insurizzle scrilla. There is playas whoz ass collect insurizzle as compulsively as others collect coins n' stamps, n' Mark Torrizzle had been dat type. Da insurizzle scrilla came up in all up in tha same time tha monthly policy payments n' liquor bills stopped. For five muthafuckin years they had been rich. Nearly rich...

In his shallow, uneasy chill his wild lil' grill rose before his ass as if up in a glass, his wild lil' grill but not his wild lil' face, tha wide eyes n' innocent bowed grill of a funky-ass pimp chillin up in tha bizzle wit his cold-ass trucks, waitin fo' his fuckin lil' daddy, waitin fo' tha white pimpgod, waitin fo' tha elevator ta rise up wit dizzying, exhilaratin speed all up in tha salt-and-sawdust mist of exhaled taverns, waitin like fo' it ta go crashin down, spillin oldschool clocksprings outta his wild lil' fuckin ears while his fuckin lil' daddy roared wit laughter, n' dat shit

(transformed tha fuck into Danny's face, so much like his own had been, his wild lil' fuckin eyes had been light blue while Danny's was cloudy gray yo, but tha lips still done cooked up a funky-ass bow n' tha complexion was fair; Danny up in his study, bustin hustlin pants, all his thugged-out lil' papers soggy n' tha fine misty smell of brew rising... a thugged-out dreadful batta all up in ferment, risin on tha wingz of yeast, tha breath of taverns... snap of bone... his own voice, mewlin fadedenly Danny, you aiiight doc?... Oh Dogg oh Dogg yo' skanky dope arm... n' dat grill transformed into)

(momma's dazed grill risin up from below tha table, socked n' bleeding, n' momma was saying)

("-from yo' daddy n' shit. I repeat, a enormously blingin announcement from yo' daddy n' shit. Please stay tuned or tune immediately ta tha Kool as fuck Jack frequency. Repeat, tune immediately ta tha Kool as fuck Hour frequency. I repeat-")

A slow dissolve. Disembodied voices echoin up ta his ass as if along a endless, cloudy hallway.

(Things keep gettin up in tha way, dear Tommy...)

(Medoc, is you here, biatch? I've been chillwalkin again, mah dear. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. It's tha inhuman monstas dat I fear...)

("Excuse me, Mista Muthafuckin Ullman yo, but isn't dis the...")

... office, wit its file cabinets, Ullman's big-ass desk, a funky-ass blank reservations book fo' next year already up in place-never misses a trick, dat Ullman-all tha keys hangin neatly on they hooks

(except fo' one, which one, which key, passkey-passkey, passkey, who's gots tha passkey, biatch? if we went upstairs like we'd see)

and tha big-ass two-way radio on its shelf.

Dude snapped it on. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. CB transmissions comin up in short, crackly bursts yo. Dude switched tha crew n' dialed across burstz of beatz, hype, a preacher haranguin a softly beatboxin congregation, a thugged-out drizzle report fo' realz. And another voice which da ruffneck dialed back to. Dat shiznit was his wild lil' father's voice.

"-kill his muthafuckin ass. Yo ass gotta bust a cap up in him, Jacky, n' her, like a muthafucka. Because a real artist must suffer n' shit. Because each playa kills tha thang he loves. Because they'll always be conspirin against you, tryin ta git freaky wit you back n' drag you down. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Right dis minute dat pimp of yours is up in where da perved-out muthafucka shouldn't be. Trespassing. That's what tha fuck he's bustin yo. He's a goddam lil pup. Cane his ass fo' it, Jacky, cane his ass within a inch of his wild lil' freakadelic game yo. Have a thugged-out drank Jacky mah boy, n' we'll play tha elevator game. Then I'll go wit you while you give his ass his crazy-ass medicine. I know you can do it, of course you can. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Yo ass must bust a cap up in his muthafuckin ass. Yo ass gotta bust a cap up in him, Jacky, n' her, like a muthafucka. Because a real artist must suffer n' shit. Because each man-"

His father's voice, goin up higher n' higher, becomin suttin' maddening, not human at all, suttin' squealin n' petulant n' maddening, tha voice of tha Ghost-God, tha Pig-God, comin dead at his ass outta tha radio and

"No!" da perved-out muthafucka screamed back. "You're dead, you're up in yo' grave, you're not up in me at all!" Because dat schmoooove muthafucka had cut all tha daddy outta his ass n' dat shiznit was not right dat da perved-out muthafucka should come back creepin all up in dis hotel two thousand milez from tha New England hood where his wild lil' daddy had lived n' died.

Dude raised tha radio up n' brought it down, n' it smashed on tha floor spillin oldschool clocksprings n' tubes like tha result of some wild-ass elevator game gone awry, makin his wild lil' father's voice gone, leavin only his voice, Jack's voice, Jacky's voice, chantin up in tha cold realitizzle of tha office:

"-dead, you're dead, you're dead!"

And tha startled sound of Wendy's feet hittin tha floor over his head, n' Wendy's startled, frightened voice: "Jack, biatch? Jack!"

Dude stood, blinkin down all up in tha shattered radio. Now there was only tha snowmobile up in tha shiznit shed ta link dem ta tha outside ghetto. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass.

Dude put his handz over his wild lil' fuckin eyes n' clutched at his cold-ass templez yo. Dude was gettin a headache.

Chapta 27. Catatonic
Wendy ran down tha hall up in her stockin feet n' ran down tha main stairs ta tha lobby two at a time. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch didn't look up all up in tha carpeted flight dat hustled ta tha second floor yo, but if dat freaky freaky biatch had, dat biiiiatch would have peeped Danny standin all up in tha top of them, still n' silent, his unfocused eyes pimped up out tha fuck into indifferent space, his cold-ass thumb up in his crazy-ass grill, tha collar n' shouldaz of his hoodie damp. There was puffy bruises on his neck n' just below his chin.

Jack's cries had ceased yo, but dat did not a god damn thang ta ease her fear. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Ripped outta her chill by his voice, raised up in dat oldschool hectorin pitch she remembered so well, her big-ass booty still felt dat dat biiiiatch was trippin-but another part knew dat biiiiatch was awake, n' dat terrified her mo' n' mo' n' mo'. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch half-sposed ta fuckin burst tha fuck into tha crib n' find his ass standin over Danny's sprawled-out body, faded n' confused.

Bitch pushed all up in tha door n' Jack was standin there, rubbin at his cold-ass templez wit his wild lil' fingers yo. His grill was pimpwhite. Da two-way CB radio lay at his wild lil' feet up in a sprinklin of fucked up glass.

"Wendy?" he axed uncertainly. "Wendy-?"

Da bewilderment seemed ta grow n' fo' a moment her big-ass booty saw his fuckin legit face, tha one he ordinarily kept so well hidden, n' dat shiznit was a gangbangin' grill of desperate unhappiness, tha grill of a animal caught up in a snare beyond its mobilitizzle ta decipher n' render harmless. Then tha musclez fuckin started ta work, fuckin started ta writhe under tha skin, tha grill fuckin started ta tremble infirmly, tha Adam's apple fuckin started ta rise n' fall.

Her own bewilderment n' surprise was overlaid by shock: da thug was goin ta cry like a muthafucka. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch had peeped his ass cry before yo, but never since da perved-out muthafucka stopped drinking... n' never up in dem minutes unless da thug was straight-up faded n' pathetically remorseful naaahhmean, biatch? Dude was a tight dude, drum-tight, n' his fuckin loss of control frightened her all over again.

Dude came toward her, tha tears brimmin over his fuckin lower lidz now, his head bobbin involuntarily as if up in a gangbangin' fruitless effort ta ward off dis wack storm, n' his chest drew up in a cold-ass lil convulsive gasp dat was expelled up in a huge, rackin sob yo. His feet, clad up in Hush Puppies, stumbled over tha wreck of tha radio n' he almost fell tha fuck into her arms, makin her stagger back wit his weight yo. His breath blew tha fuck into her grill n' there was no smell of liquor on dat shit. Of course not; there was no liquor up here.

"What's wrong?" Biatch held his ass as dopest dat thugged-out biiiatch could. "Jack, what tha fuck is it?"

But his schmoooove ass could do not a god damn thang at first but sob, clingin ta her, almost crushin tha wind from her, his head turnin on her shoulder up in dat helpless, bobbin, warding-off gesture yo. His sobs was heavy n' fierce yo. Dude was shudderin all over, his crazy-ass musclez jerkin beneath his thugged-out lil' plaid hoodie n' jeans.

"Jack, biatch? What, biatch? Tell me what's wrong!"

At last tha sobs fuckin started ta chizzle theyselves tha fuck into lyrics, most of dem incoherent at first yo, but comin clearer as his cold-ass tears fuckin started ta spend theyselves.

"... dream, I guess dat shiznit was a thugged-out dream yo, but dat shiznit was so real, I

... dat shiznit was mah mutha sayin dat Daddy was goin ta be on tha radio n' I... da thug was... da thug was spittin some lyrics ta me to... I don't know, da thug was yellin all up in mah face... n' so I broke tha radio... ta shut his ass up. To shut his ass up yo. He's dead as fuckin fried chicken. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I don't even wanna trip bout his muthafuckin ass yo. He's dead as fuckin fried chicken. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. My fuckin God, Wendy, mah Dogg. I never had a nightmare like dis shit. I never wanna have another one. Christ son! Dat shiznit was awful."

"Yo ass just fell tha fuck asleep up in tha office?"

"No... not here, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. Downstairs." Dude was straightenin a lil now, his weight comin off her, n' tha steady backand-forth motion of his head first slowed n' then stopped.

"I was lookin all up in dem oldschool papers. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Sittin on a cold-ass lil chair I set up down there, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. Milk receipts, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. Dull shiznit fo' realz. And I guess I just drowsed off. That's when I started ta dream. I must have chillwalked up here." Dude essayed a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shaky lil laugh against her neck. "Another first."

"Where is Danny, Jack?"

"I don't know. Isn't da thug wit yo slick ass?"

"Dude wasn't... downstairs wit yo slick ass?"

Dude looked over his shoulder n' his wild lil' grill tightened at what tha fuck da perved-out muthafucka saw on her face.

"Never goin ta let me forget that, is you, Wendy?"

"Jack-"

"When I'm on mah dirtnapbed you'll lean over n' say, `It serves you right, remember tha time you broke Danny's arm?' "

"Jack!"

"Jack what?" he axed hotly, n' jumped ta his Nikes. "Is you denyin that's what tha fuck you're thinking, biatch? That I hurt him, biatch? That I hurt his ass once before n' I could hurt his ass again?"

"I wanna know where he is, that's all!"

"Go ahead, yell yo' fuckin head off, that'll make every last muthafuckin thang aiiight, won't it, biatch? "

Bitch turned n' strutted up tha door.

Dude peeped her go, frozen fo' a moment, a funky-ass blotta covered wit fragmentz of fucked up glass up in one hand. Then da ruffneck dropped it tha fuck into tha wastebasket, went afta her, n' caught her by tha lobby desk yo. Dude put his handz on her shouldaz n' turned her around. Her grill was carefully set.

"Wendy, I'm sorry bout dat bullshit. Dat shiznit was tha dream. I'm upset. Forgive?"

"Of course," her big-ass booty holla'd, her grill not changin expression. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Her wooden shouldaz slipped outta his hands. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch strutted ta tha middle of tha lobby n' called: "Yo, doc! Where is yo slick ass?"

Silence came back. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch strutted toward tha double lobby doors opened one of them, n' stepped up onto tha path Jack had shoveled. Dat shiznit was mo' like a trench; tha packed n' drifted snow all up in which tha path was cut came ta her shoulders. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch called his ass again, her breath comin up in a white plume. When dat thugged-out biiiatch came back up in dat freaky freaky biatch had begun ta look trippin like a muthafucka.

Controllin his crazy-ass muthafuckin irritation wit her, da perved-out muthafucka holla'd reasonably: "Is you shizzle he's not chillin up in his bangin room?"

"I holla'd at you, da thug was playin somewhere when I was knitting. I could hear his ass downstairs."

"Did yo dirty ass fall asleep?"

"What's dat gots ta do wit it, biatch? Yes yes y'all. Danny?"

"Did yo dirty ass look up in his bangin room when you came downstairs just now?"

"I-"Bitch stopped.

Dude nodded. "I didn't straight-up be thinkin so."

Dude started up tha stairs without waitin fo' her n' shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch followed him, halfrunnin yo, but da thug was takin tha risers two at a time. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch almost crashed tha fuck into his back when his schmoooove ass came ta a thugged-out dead stop on tha first-floor landin yo. Dude was rooted there, lookin up, his wild lil' fuckin eyes wide.

"What-?" da hoe fuckin started, n' followed his wild lil' freakadelic gaze.

Danny still stood there, his wild lil' fuckin eyes blank, suckin his cold-ass thumb. Da marks on his cold-ass throat was wackly visible up in tha light of tha hall's electric flambeaux.

"Danny!" her big-ass booty shrieked.

It broke Jack's paralysis n' they rushed up tha stairs together ta where da perved-out muthafucka stood. I be fly as a gangbangin' falcon, soarin all up in tha sky dawwwwg! Wendy fell tha fuck on her knees beside his ass n' swept tha pimp tha fuck into her arms. Boy it's gettin hot, yes indeed it is. Danny came pliantly enough yo, but da ruffneck did not gangbang her back. Dat shiznit was like huggin a padded stick, n' tha dope taste of horror flooded her grill yo. Dude only sucked his cold-ass thumb n' stared wit indifferent blanknizz up tha fuck into tha stairwell beyond both of dem wild-ass muthafuckas.

"Danny, what tha fuck happened?" Jack asked. Dude put up his hand ta bust a nut on tha puffy side of Danny's neck. "Dum diddy-dum, here I come biaaatch! Who tha fuck did dis to

"Don't you bust a nut on him!" Wendy hissed. Biatch clutched Danny up in her arms, lifted him, n' had retreated halfway down tha stairs before Jack could do mo' than stand up, confused.

"What, biatch? Wendy, what tha fuck tha hell is you t-"

"Don't you bust a nut on him! I'll bust a cap up in you if you lay yo' handz on his ass again!"

"Wendy-"

"Yo ass bastard!"

Bitch turned n' ran down tha rest of tha stairs ta tha straight-up original gangsta floor. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Danny's head jounced mildly up n' down as she ran. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. His thumb was lodged securely up in his crazy-ass grill yo. His eyes was soaped windows. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch turned right all up in tha foot of tha stairs, n' Jack heard her feet retreat ta tha end of dat shit. Their bedroom door slammed. Da bolt was run home. Da lock turned. Brief silence. Then tha soft, muttered soundz of comforting.

Dude stood fo' a unknown length of time, literally paralyzed by all dat had happened up in such a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass short space of time yo. His trip was still wit him, paintin every last muthafuckin thang a slightly unreal shade. Dat shiznit was as if dat schmoooove muthafucka had taken a straight-up mild mescaline hit yo. Had he maybe hurt Danny as Wendy thought, biatch? Tried ta strangle his fuckin lil hustla at his fuckin lil' dead father's request, biatch? No yo. Dude would never hurt Danny.

(Dude fell tha fuck down tha stairs, Doctor.)

Dude would never hurt Danny now, nahmeean?

(How tha fuck could I know tha bug bomb was defective?)

Never up in his wild lil' freakadelic game had his thugged-out lil' punk-ass been willfully vicious when da thug was sober.

(Except when you almost capped George Hatfield.)

"No!" his schmoooove ass cried tha fuck into tha darknizz yo. Dude brought both fists crashin down on his fuckin legs, again n' again n' again n' again n' again n' again n' again.



Wendy sat up in tha overstuffed chair by tha window wit Danny on her lap, holdin him, croonin tha oldschool meaningless lyrics, tha ones you never remember afterward no matta how tha fuck a thang turns up yo. Dude had folded onto her lap wit neither protest nor gladness, like a paper cutout of his dirty ass, n' his wild lil' fuckin eyes didn't even shift toward tha door when Jack cried up "No!" somewhere up in tha hallway.

Da mad drama had receded a lil bit up in her mind yo, but she now discovered suttin' even worse behind dat shit. Panic.

Jack had done this, dat freaky freaky biatch had no diggity of it yo. His denials meant not a god damn thang ta her n' shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch thought dat shiznit was perfectly possible dat Jack had tried ta throttle Danny up in his chill just as dat schmoooove muthafucka had smashed tha CB radio up in his chill yo. Dude was havin a funky-ass breakdown of some kind. But what tha fuck was she goin ta do bout it, biatch? Biatch couldn't stay locked up in here forever n' shit. They would gotta eat.

There was straight-up only one question, n' dat shiznit was axed up in a menstrual voice of utta coldnizz n' pragmatism, tha voice of her maternity, a cold-ass lil cold n' passionless voice once dat shiznit was pimped up away from tha closed circle of mutha n' lil pimp n' up toward Jack. Dat shiznit was a voice dat was rappin of self-preservation only afta son-preservation n' its question was:

(Exactly how tha fuck fucked up is he?)

Dude had denied bustin it yo. Dude had been horrified all up in tha bruises, at Danny's soft n' implacable disconnection. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. If dat schmoooove muthafucka had done it, a separate section of his dirty ass had been responsible. Da fact dat dat schmoooove muthafucka had done it when da thug was asleep was-in a shitty, twisted way-encouraging. Wasn't it possible dat his schmoooove ass could be trusted ta git dem outta here, biatch? To git dem down n' away fo' realz. And afta that...

But dat thugged-out biiiatch could peep no further than she n' Danny arrivin safe at Dr. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Edmonds's crib up in Sidewinder n' shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch had no particular need ta peep further n' shit. Da present crisis was mo' than enough ta keep her occupied.

Bitch crooned ta Danny, rockin his ass on her breasts yo. Her fingers, on his shoulder, had noticed dat his T-shirt was damp yo, but they had not bothered reportin tha shiznit ta her dome up in mo' than a cold-ass lil cursory way. If it had been reported, she might have remembered dat Jack's hands, as dat schmoooove muthafucka had hugged her up in tha crib n' sobbed against her neck, shitty been dry. Well shiiiit, it might have given her pause. But her mind was still on other thangs. Da decision had ta be made-to approach Jack or not?

Actually dat shiznit was not much of a thugged-out decision. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. There was not a god damn thang dat thugged-out biiiatch could do alone, not even carry Danny down ta tha crib n' call fo' help on tha CB radio yo. Dude had suffered a pimped out shock yo. Dude ought ta be taken up quickly before any permanent damage could be done. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch refused ta let her muthafuckin ass believe dat permanent damage might already done been done.

And still she agonized over it, lookin fo' another alternative. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch did not wanna put Danny back within Jack's reach. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch was aware now dat dat freaky freaky biatch had made one shitty decision when dat freaky freaky biatch had gone against her vibe (and Danny's) n' allowed tha snow ta close dem in... fo' Jack's sake fo' realz. Another shitty decision when dat freaky freaky biatch had shelved tha scam of divorce. Now dat biiiiatch was nearly paralyzed by tha scam dat she might be makin another mistake, one dat biiiiatch would regret every last muthafuckin minute of every last muthafuckin dizzle of tha rest of her game.

There was not a glock up in tha place. There was knives hangin from tha magnetized runners up in tha kitchen yo, but Jack was between her n' dem wild-ass muthafuckas.

In her strivin ta make tha right decision, ta find tha alternative, tha bitta irony of her thoughts did not occur: a minute ago dat freaky freaky biatch had been asleep, firmly convinced dat thangs was all right n' soon would be even mo' betta n' shit. Now dat biiiiatch was thankin bout tha possibilitizzle of rockin a funky-ass butcher knife on her homeboy if tha pimpin' muthafucka tried ta interfere wit her n' her son.

At last her big-ass booty stood up wit Danny up in her arms, her hairy-ass legs trembling. There was no other way. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch would gotta assume dat Jack awake was Jack sane, n' dat da thug would help her git Danny down ta Sidewinder n' Dr. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Edmondz fo' realz. And if Jack tried ta do anythang but help, Dogg help his muthafuckin ass.

Bitch went ta tha door n' unlocked dat shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Shiftin Danny up ta her shoulder, she opened it n' went up tha fuck into tha hall.

"Jack?" dat thugged-out biiiatch called nervously, n' gots no answer.

With growin trepidation dat biiiiatch strutted down ta tha stairwell yo, but Jack was not there, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho fo' realz. And as her big-ass booty stood there on tha landing, wonderin what tha fuck ta do next, tha rappin came up from below, rich, mad salty, bitterly satiric:

"Roll me over

In tha clo-ho-ver,

Roll me over, lay me down n' do it again."

Bitch was frightened even mo' by tha sound of his ass than dat freaky freaky biatch had been by his silence yo, but there was still no alternative. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch started down tha stairs.

Chapta 28. "It Was Da Hoe!"
Jack had stood on tha stairs, listenin ta tha crooning, comfortin soundz comin muffled all up in tha locked door, n' slowly his crazy-ass mad drama had given way ta anger n' shit. Things had never straight-up chizzled. Not ta Wendy yo. Dude could be off tha juice fo' twenty muthafuckin years n' still when his schmoooove ass came home at night n' she embraced his ass all up in tha door, da thug would see/ sense dat lil flare of her nostrils as dat dunkadelic hoe tried ta divine scotch or gin fumes ridin tha outbound train of his wild lil' fuckin exhalation. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch was always goin ta assume tha worst; if he n' Danny gots up in a cold-ass lil hoopty accident wit a thugged-out fadeden blindman who. had had a stroke just before tha collision, dat biiiiatch would silently blame Danny's fuck-ups on his ass n' turn away.

Her grill as dat freaky freaky biatch had snatched Danny away-it rose up before his ass n' da perved-out muthafucka suddenly wanted ta wipe tha anger dat had been on it up wit his wild lil' fist.

Bitch had no goddam right playa!

Yes, maybe at first yo. Dude had been a lush, dat schmoooove muthafucka had done shitty thangs. Breakin Danny's arm had been a shitty thang. But if a playa reforms, don't da ruffneck deserve ta have his bangin reformation credited sooner or later, biatch? And if da ruffneck don't git it, don't da ruffneck deserve tha game ta go wit tha name, biatch? If a gangbangin' daddy constantly accuses his virginal daughta of screwin every last muthafuckin pimp up in junior high, must she not at last grow weary (enough) of it ta git her scoldings, biatch? And if a hoe secretly-and not so secretly-continues ta believe dat her teetotalin homeboy be a thugged-out faded...

Dude gots up, strutted slowly down ta tha first-floor landing, n' stood there fo' a moment yo. Dude took his handkerchizzle from his back pocket, wiped his fuckin lips wit it, n' considered goin down n' poundin on tha bedroom door, demandin ta be let up in so his schmoooove ass could peep his son. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch had no right ta be all kindsa goddam highhanded.

Well, sooner or lata she'd gotta come out, unless she planned a radical sort of diet fo' tha two of dem wild-ass muthafuckas fo' realz. A rather skanky grin touched his fuckin lips all up in tha thought. Let her come ta his muthafuckin ass. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch would up in time.

Dude went downstairs ta tha ground floor, stood aimlessly by tha lobby desk fo' a moment, then turned right yo. Dude went tha fuck into tha dinin room n' stood just inside tha door. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Da empty tables, they white linen cloths neatly cleaned n' pressed beneath they clear plastic covers, glimmered up at his muthafuckin ass fo' realz. All was deserted now but

(Dinner Will Be Served at 8 P. M.

Unm askin n' Steppin At Midnight)

Jack strutted among tha tables, momentarily forgettin his hoe n' lil hustla upstairs, forgettin tha dream, tha smashed radio, tha bruises yo. Dude trailed his wild lil' fingers over tha slick plastic dustcovers, tryin ta imagine how tha fuck it must done been on that

hot August night up in 1945, tha war won, tha future stretchin ahead so various n' new, like a land of dreams. Boy it's gettin hot, yes indeed it is. Da bright n' particolored Japanese lanterns hung tha whole length of tha circular drive, tha golden-yellow light spillin from these high windows dat was now drifted over wit snow. Men

and dem hoes up in costume, here a glitterin bizzatch, there a high-booted cavalier, flashin blin n' flashin wit every

where, ridin' dirty, liquor flowin freely, first Cristal n' then cocktails n' then like boilermakers tha level of conver

sation goin up n' up n' up until tha jolly cry rang up from tha bandmaster's podium, tha cry of "Unmask! Unmask!"

(And tha Red Dirtnap held sway...)

Dude found his dirty ass standin on tha other side of tha dinin room, just outside tha stylized batwin doorz of tha Colorado Lounge where, on dat night up in 1945, all tha booze would done been free.

(Belly up ta tha bar, pardner, tha drinks're on tha house.)

Dude stepped all up in tha batwings n' tha fuck into tha deep, folded shadowz of tha bar fo' realz. And a strange thang occurred. Dude had been up in here before, once ta check tha inventory shizzle Ullman had left, n' he knew tha place had been stripped clean. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da shelves was straight-up bare. But now, lit only murkily by tha light which filtered all up in from tha dinin room (which was itself only dimly lit cuz of tha snow blockin tha windows), tha pimpin' muthafucka thought da perved-out muthafucka saw ranks n' rankz of bottlez twinklin mutedly behind tha bar, n' syphons, n' even brew drippin from tha spigotz of all three highly polished taps. Yes, his schmoooove ass could even smell brew, dat damp n' fermented n' yeasty odor, no different from tha smell dat had hung finely misted round his wild lil' father's grill every last muthafuckin night when his schmoooove ass came home from work.

Eyes widening, he fumbled fo' tha wall switch, n' tha low, intimate barlightin came on, circlez of twenty-watt bulbs emplanted on tha topz of tha three wagon-wheel chandeliers overhead.

Da shelves was all empty. They had not even as yet gathered a phat coat of dust. Da brew taps was dry, as was tha chrome drains beneath dem wild-ass muthafuckas. To his fuckin left n' right, tha velvet-upholstered booths stood like pimps wit high backs, each one designed ta give a maximum of privacy ta tha couple inside. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Straight ahead, across tha red-carpeted floor, forty barstools stood round tha horseshoe-shaped bar. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Each stool was upholstered up in leather n' embossed wit cattle brands-Circle H, Bar D Bar (that was fitting), Rockin W, Lazy B.

Dude approached it, givin his head a lil shake of bewilderment as da ruffneck did so. Dat shiznit was like dat dizzle on tha playground when... but there was no sense up in thankin bout dis shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Still his schmoooove ass could have sworn dat schmoooove muthafucka had peeped dem bottles, vaguely, dat shiznit was true, tha way you peep tha darkened shapez of furniture up in a room where tha curtains done been drawn. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Mild glints on glass. Da only thang dat remained was dat smell of brew, n' Jack knew dat was a smell dat faded tha fuck into tha woodwork of every last muthafuckin bar up in tha ghetto afta a cold-ass lil certain period of time, not ta be eradicated by any cleaner invented. This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. Yet tha smell here seemed sharp... almost fresh.

Dude sat down on one of tha stools n' propped his wild lil' fuckin elbows on tha bar's leathercushioned edge fo' realz. At his fuckin left hand was a funky-ass bowl fo' peanuts-now empty, of course. Da first bar he'd been up in fo' nineteen months n' tha damned thang was dry-just his fuckin luck fo' realz. All tha same, a funky-ass bitterly bangin wave of nostalgia swept over him, n' tha physical cravin fo' a thugged-out drank seemed ta work itself up from his belly ta his cold-ass throat ta his crazy-ass grill n' nose, shrivelin n' wrinklin tha tissues as it went, makin dem cry up fo' suttin' wet n' long n' cold.

Dude glanced all up in tha shelves again n' again n' again up in wild, irrationizzle hope but tha shelves was just as empty as before yo. Dude grinned up in pain n' frustration. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. His fists, clenchin slowly, made minute scratchings on tha bar's leather-padded edge.

"Yea muthafucka, Lloyd," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. "A lil slow tonight, isn't it?"

Lloyd holla'd it was. Lloyd axed his ass what tha fuck it would be.

"Now I'm straight-up glad you axed mah crazy ass that," Jack holla'd, "really glad. Because I happen ta have two twentizzles n' two tens up in mah wallet n' I was afraid they'd be chillin there until sometime next April. There isn't a Seven-Eleven round here, would you believe it, biatch? And I thought they had Seven-Elevens on tha fuckin moon."

Lloyd sympathized.

"So here's what," Jack holla'd. "Yo ass set me up a even twenty martinis fo' realz. An even twenty, just like that, kazang. One fo' every last muthafuckin month I've been on tha wagon n' one ta grow on. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Yo ass can do that, can't yo slick ass, biatch? Yo ass aren't too busy?"

Lloyd holla'd da thug wasn't busy at all.

"Dope man. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Yo ass line dem martians up right along tha bar n' I'm goin ta take dem down, one by one. White dudez burden, Lloyd mah man."

Lloyd turned ta do tha thang. Jack reached tha fuck into his thugged-out lil' pocket fo' his crazy-ass scrilla clip n' came up wit a Excedrin forty instead. His scrilla clip was on tha bedroom bureau, n' of course his skinny-shanks hoe had locked his ass outta tha bedroom. Sick going, Wendy. Yo ass bleedin biiiatch.

"I seem ta be momentarily light," Jack holla'd. "How's mah credit up in dis joint, anyhow?"

Lloyd holla'd his credit was fine.

"That's supa n' shit. I wanna bust a nut on you, Lloyd. Yo ass was always tha dopest of dem wild-ass muthafuckas. Best damned barkeep between Barre n' Portland, Maine. Portland, Oregon, fo' dat matter."

Lloyd gave props ta his ass fo' sayin so.

Jack thumped tha cap from his Excedrin bottle, shook two tablets out, n' flipped dem tha fuck into his crazy-ass grill. Da familiar acid-compellin taste flooded in.

Dude had a sudden sensation dat playas was watchin him, curiously n' wit some contempt. Da booths behind his ass was full-there was graying, distinguished pimps n' dope lil' girls, all of dem up in costume, watchin dis fucked up exercise up in tha dramatic arts wit cold amusement.

Jack whirled on his stool.

Da booths was all empty, stretchin away from tha lounge door ta tha left n' right, tha line on his fuckin left cornerin ta flank tha bar's horseshoe curve down tha short length of tha room. Padded leather seats n' backs. Gleamin dark Formica tables, a ashtray on each one, a funky-ass book of matches up in each ashtray, tha lyrics Colorado Lounge stamped on each up in gold leaf above tha batwing-door logo.

Dude turned back, swallowin tha rest of tha dissolvin Excedrin wit a grimace.

"Lloyd, you're a wonder," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. "Set up already. Yo crazy-ass speed is only exceeded by tha soulful beauty of yo' Neapolitan eyes. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Salud."

Jack contemplated tha twenty imaginary drinks, tha martini glasses blushin dropletz of condensation, each wit a swizzle poked all up in a plump chronic olive yo. Dude could almost smell gin on tha air.

"Da wagon," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. "Has you done eva been acquainted wit a gentleman whoz ass has hopped up on tha wagon?"

Lloyd allowed as how tha fuck dat schmoooove muthafucka had kicked it wit such pimps from time ta time.

"Has you done eva renewed acquaintances wit such a playa afta dat schmoooove muthafucka hopped back off, biatch? "

Lloyd could not, up in all honesty, recall.

"Yo ass never did, then," Jack holla'd. Dude curled his hand round tha straight-up original gangsta drink, carried his wild lil' fist ta his crazy-ass grill, which was open, n' turned his wild lil' fist up yo. Dude swallowed n' then tossed tha imaginary glass over his shoulder n' shit. Da playas was back again, fresh from they costume ball, studyin him, bustin up behind they handz yo. Dude could feel dem wild-ass muthafuckas. If tha backbar had featured a mirror instead of dem damn wack empty shelves, his schmoooove ass could have peeped dem wild-ass muthafuckas. Let dem stare. Fuck dem wild-ass muthafuckas. Let anybody stare whoz ass wanted ta stare.

"Fuck dat shit, you never did," tha pimpin' muthafucka holla'd at Lloyd. "Few pimps eva return from tha fabled Wagon yo, but dem playas whoz ass do come wit a gangbangin' fearful tale ta tell. When you jump on, it seems like tha brightest, cleanest Wagon you eva saw, wit ten-foot wheels ta keep tha bed of it high outta tha gutta where all tha fadedz is layin round wit they brown bags n' they Thunderbird n' they Granddad Flash's Popskull Bourbon. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. You're away from all tha playas whoz ass throw you nasty looks n' rap ta clean up yo' act or go put it on up in another town. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. From tha gutter, that's tha finest-lookin Wagon you eva saw, Lloyd mah pimp fo' realz. All hung wit buntin n' a funky-ass brass crew up in front n' three majorettes ta each side, twirlin they batons n' flashin they pantizzles at you, biatch. Man, you gots ta git on dat Wagon n' away from tha juicers dat is strainin canned heat n' smellin they own puke ta git high again n' again n' again n' pokin along tha gutta fo' butts wit half a inch left below tha filter."

Dude drained two mo' imaginary dranks n' tossed tha glasses back over his shoulder n' shiznit yo. Dude could almost hear dem smashin on tha floor fo' realz. And goddam if da thug wasn't startin ta feel high. Dat shiznit was tha Excedrin.

"So you climb up," tha pimpin' muthafucka holla'd at Lloyd. "and ain't you glad ta be there, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. My fuckin Dogg fo'sho, that's affirmative. That Wagon is tha freshest n' dopest float up in tha whole parade, n' dem hoes is linin tha streets n' clappin n' cheerin n' waving, all fo' you, biatch. Except fo' tha winos passed up in tha gutter n' shit. Those muthafuckas used ta be yo' playaz yo, but that's all behind you now, nahmeean?"

Dude carried his wild lil' fuckin empty fist ta his crazy-ass grill n' sluiced down another-four down, sixteen ta bounce tha fuck out. Makin pimpin progress yo. Dude swayed a lil on tha stool. Let em stare, if dat was how tha fuck they gots off. Take a picture, folks, it'll last longer.

"Then you start ta peep thangs, Lloydy-my-boy. Things you missed from tha gutter n' shit. Like how tha fuck tha floor of tha Wagon aint a god damn thang but straight pine boards, so fresh they're still bleedin sap, n' if you took yo' Nikes off you'd be shizzle ta git a splinter n' shit. Like how tha fuck tha only furniture up in tha Wagon is these long benches wit high backs n' no cushions ta sit on, n' up in fact they aint a god damn thang but pews wit a songbook every last muthafuckin five feet or so. Like how tha fuck all tha playas chillin up in tha pews on tha Wagon is these flatchested el birdos up in long dresses wit a lil lace round tha collar n' they afro pulled back tha fuck into buns until it's so tight you can almost hear it screamin fo' realz. And every last muthafuckin grill is fiat n' pale n' shiny, n' they're all rappin `Shall we gather all up in tha riiiiver, tha dope, tha dope, tha riiiiiver,' n' up front there's dis reekin biiiatch wit blond afro playin tha organ n' tellin em ta rap louder, rap louder n' shiznit fo' realz. And some muthafucka slams a songbook tha fuck into yo' handz n' says, `Sin it out, brutha n' shit. If you expect ta stay on dis Wagon, you gots ta rap morning, noon, n' night. Especially at night. ' And that's when you realize what tha fuck tha Wagon straight-up is, Lloyd. It's a cold-ass lil church wit bars on tha windows, a cold-ass lil church fo' dem hoes n' a prison fo' you, biatch."

Dude stopped. Lloyd was gone. Worse still, dat schmoooove muthafucka had never been there, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. Da dranks had never been there, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. Only tha playas up in tha booths, tha playas from tha costume party, n' his schmoooove ass could almost hear they muffled laughta as they held they bandz ta they grills n' pointed, they eyes sparklin wit wack pinpointz of light.

Dude whirled round again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. "Leave me-"

(alone?)

All tha booths was empty. Da sound of laughta had took a dirt nap like a stir of autumn leaves. Jack stared all up in tha empty lounge fo' a tick of time, his wild lil' fuckin eyes wide n' dark fo' realz. A pulse beat noticeably up in tha centa of his wild lil' forehead. In tha straight-up centa of his ass a cold-ass lil cold certainty was formin n' tha certainty was dat da thug was losin his crazy-ass mind. Dude felt a urge ta pick up tha bar stool next ta him, reverse it, n' go all up in tha place like a avengin whirlwind. Instead da thug whirled back round ta tha bar n' fuckin started ta bellow:

"Roll me over

In tha clo-ho-ver,

Roll me over, lay me down n' do it again."

Danny's grill rose before him, not Danny's aiiight face, lively n' alert, tha eyes sparklin n' open yo, but tha catatonic, zombielike grill of a stranger, tha eyes dull n' opaque, tha grill pursed babyishly round his cold-ass thumb. What was da ruffneck bustin, chillin here n' poppin' off ta his dirty ass like a sulky teen-ager when his fuckin lil hustla was upstairs, someplace, actin like suttin' dat belonged up in a padded room, actin tha way Wally Hollis holla'd Vic Stenger had been before tha pimps up in tha white coats had ta come n' take his ass away?

(But 1 never put a hand on him! Goddammit, 1 didn't!)

"Jack?" Da voice was timid, hesitant.

Dude was so startled he almost fell tha git tha fuck outta mah grill wit dat bullshit tha stool whirlin it around. Wendy was standin just inside tha batwin doors, Danny cradled up in her arms like some waxen horror show dummy. Da three of dem done cooked up a tableau dat Jack felt straight-up strongly; dat shiznit was just before tha curtain of Act Pt II up in some oldtime temperizzle play, one so skankyly mounted dat tha prop playa had forgotten ta stock tha shelvez of tha Den of Iniquity.

"I never touched him," Jack holla'd thickly. "I never have since tha night I broke his thugged-out arm. Not even ta spank his muthafuckin ass."

"Jack, dat don't matta now, nahmeean, biatch? What mattas is-"

"This matters!" da perved-out muthafucka shouted. This type'a shiznit happens all tha time yo. Dude brought one fist crashin down on tha bar, hard enough ta make tha empty peanut dishes jump. "It matters, goddammit, it matters muthafucka! "

"Jack, we gotta git his ass off tha mountain. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. He's-"

Danny fuckin started ta stir up in her arms. Boy it's gettin hot, yes indeed it is. Da slack, empty expression on his wild lil' grill had begun ta break up like a thick matte of ice over some buried surface yo. His lips twisted, as if at some weird taste yo. His eyes widened. His handz came up as if ta cover dem n' then dropped back.

Abruptly da perved-out muthafucka stiffened up in her arms yo. His back arched tha fuck into a funky-ass bow, makin Wendy stagger n' shiznit fo' realz. And da perved-out muthafucka suddenly fuckin started ta shriek, mad soundz dat escaped his strainin throat up in bolt afta crazy, echoin bolt. Da sound seemed ta fill tha empty downstairs n' come back at dem like banshees. There might done been a hundred Dannys, all beatboxin at once.

"Jack!" dat thugged-out biiiatch cried up in terror. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. "Oh Dogg Jack what's wack wit him?"

Dude came off tha stool, numb from tha waist down, mo' frightened than dat schmoooove muthafucka had eva been up in his wild lil' freakadelic game. What hole had his fuckin lil hustla poked all up in n' into, biatch? What dark nest, biatch? And what tha fuck had been up in there ta stin him?

"Danny!" he roared. "Danny!"

Danny saw his muthafuckin ass yo. Dude broke his crazy-ass mother's grip wit a sudden, fierce strength dat gave her no chizzle ta hold his muthafuckin ass. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch stumbled back against one of tha booths n' nearly fell tha fuck into dat shit.

"Daddy!" da perved-out muthafucka screamed, hustlin ta Jack, his wild lil' fuckin eyes hugs n' affrighted. This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. "Oh Daddy Daddy, dat shiznit was her playa! Her playa! Her playa! Oh Daaaaahdeee-"

Dude slammed tha fuck into Jack's arms like a funky-ass blunt arrow, makin Jack rock on his Nikes. Danny clutched at his ass furiously, at first seemin ta pummel his ass like a gangbangin' fighter, then clutchin his belt n' sobbin against his shirt. Jack could feel his son's face, bangin' n' working, against his belly.

Daddy, dat shiznit was her muthafuckin ass.

Jack looked slowly up tha fuck into Wendy's grill yo. His eyes was like lil' small-ass silver coins.

"Wendy?" Voice soft, nearly purring. "Wendy, what tha fuck did you do ta him?"

Wendy stared back at his ass up in stunned disbelief, her grill pallid. Biatch shook her head.

"Oh Jack, you must know-"

Outside it had begun ta snow cocaine again.

Chapta 29. Kitchen Talk
Jack carried Danny tha fuck into tha kitchen. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da pimp was still sobbin wildly, refusin ta look up from Jack's chest. In tha kitchen he gave Danny back ta Wendy, whoz ass still seemed stunned n' disbelieving.

"Jack, I don't know what tha fuck he's poppin' off about. Please, you must believe that."

"I do believe it," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, although dat schmoooove muthafucka had ta admit ta his dirty ass dat it gave his ass a cold-ass lil certain amount of pleasure ta peep tha shoe switched ta tha other foot wit such dazzling, unexpected speed: But his thugged-out anger at Wendy had been only a passin gut twitch. In his thugged-out ass he knew Wendy would pour a cold-ass lil can of gasoline over her muthafuckin ass n' strike a match before harmin Danny.

Da big-ass chronic kettle was on tha back burner, pokin along on low heat. Jack dropped a teabag tha fuck into his own big-ass ceramic cup n' poured bangin' wata halfway.

"Got cookin sherry, don't yo slick ass?" he axed Wendy.

"What?... oh, sure. Two or three bottlez of dat shit."

"Which cupboard?"

Bitch pointed, n' Jack took one of tha bottlez down. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude poured a hefty dollop tha fuck into tha teacup, put tha sherry back, n' filled tha last quarta of tha cup wit milk. Then he added three tablespoonz of sugar n' stirred. Dude brought it ta Danny, whose sobs had tapered off ta snifflings n' hitchings. But da thug was tremblin all over, n' his wild lil' fuckin eyes was wide n' starey.

"Want you ta drank this, doc," Jack holla'd. "It's goin ta taste friggin awful yo, but it'll make you feel mo' betta n' shit. Yo ass betta drank it fo' yo' daddy?"

Danny nodded dat his schmoooove ass could n' took tha cup yo. Dude drank a lil, grimaced, n' looked questioningly at Jack. Jack nodded n' Danny drank again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Wendy felt tha familiar twist of jealousy somewhere up in her middle, knowin tha pimp would not have faded it fo' her muthafuckin ass.

On tha heelz of dat came a uncomfortable, even startlin thought: Had dat biiiiatch wanted ta be thinkin Jack was ta blame, biatch? Was dat dunkadelic hoe dat jealous, biatch? Dat shiznit was tha way her mutha would have thought, dat was tha straight-up wack thang. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch could remember a Sundizzle when her Dad had taken her ta tha park n' dat freaky freaky biatch had toppled from tha second tier of tha jungle gym, cuttin both knees. When her daddy brought her home, her mutha had shrieked at him: What did you do, biatch? Why weren't you watchin her, biatch? What kind of a gangbangin' daddy is yo slick ass?

(Bitch had hounded his ass ta his wild lil' freakadelic grave; by tha time da ruffneck divorced her dat shiznit was too late.)

Bitch had never even given Jack tha benefit of tha doubt. Not tha smallest. Wendy felt her grill burn yet knew wit a kind of helpless finalitizzle dat if tha whole thang was ta be played over again, dat biiiiatch would do n' be thinkin tha same way. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch carried part of her mutha wit her always, fo' phat or bad.

"Jack-" da hoe fuckin started, not shizzle if she meant ta apologize or justify. Either, she knew, would be useless.

"Not now," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd.

It took Danny fifteen minutes ta drank half of tha big-ass cup's contents, n' by dat time dat schmoooove muthafucka had calmed visibly. Da shakes was almost gone.

Jack put his handz solemnly on his son's shoulders. "Danny, do you be thinkin you can tell our asses exactly what tha fuck happened ta yo slick ass, biatch? It's straight-up blingin."

Danny looked from Jack ta Wendy, then back again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. In tha silent pause, they settin n' thang made theyselves known: tha whoop of tha wind outside, rollin fresh snow down from tha northwest; tha creakin n' groanin of tha oldschool hotel as it settled tha fuck into another storm. Da fact of they disconnect came ta Wendy wit unexpected force as it sometimes did, like a funky-ass blow under tha ass.

"I want... ta rap every last muthafuckin thang," Danny holla'd. "I wish I had before." Dude picked up tha cup n' held it, as if comforted by tha warmth.

"Why didn't you, son?" Jack brushed Danny's sweaty, tumbled afro back gently from his brow.

"Because Uncle Al gots you tha thang fo' realz. And I couldn't git into how tha fuck dat shiznit was phat fo' you here n' shitty fo' you here all up in tha same time. Well shiiiit, it was..." Dude looked at dem fo' help yo. Dude did not have tha necessary word.

"A dilemma?" Wendy axed gently. "When neither chizzle seems any good?"

"Yes, that." Dude nodded, relieved.

Wendy holla'd: "Da dizzle dat you trimmed tha hedges, Danny n' I had a rap up in tha truck. Da dizzle tha straight-up original gangsta real snow came. Remember?"

Jack nodded. Da dizzle dat schmoooove muthafucka had trimmed tha hedges was straight-up clear up in his crazy-ass mind.

Wendy sighed. "I guess our phat asses didn't rap enough cause I gots dem finger-lickin' chickens wit tha siz-auce. Did we, doc?"

Danny, tha picture of woe, shook his head.

"Exactly what tha fuck did you rap about?" Jack asked. "I'm not shizzle how tha fuck much I wanna bust a nut on mah hoe n' son-"

"-discussin how tha fuck much they ludd yo slick ass?"

"Whatever it was, I don't KNOW dat shit. I feel like I came tha fuck into a porno just afta tha intermission."

"Us thugs was discussin you," Wendy holla'd on tha fuckin' down-lowly. "And maybe our phat asses didn't say all dat shiznit up in lyrics yo, but we both knew. Me cuz I'm yo' hoe n' Danny cuz he... just understandz thangs."

Jack was silent.

"Danny holla'd it just right. Da place seemed phat fo' you, biatch. Yo ass was away from all tha pressures dat made you so unaiiight at Stovington. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Yo ass was yo' own boss, hustlin wit yo' handz so you could save yo' dome-all of yo' dome- fo' yo' evenings writing. Then... I don't know just when... tha place fuckin started ta seem shitty fo' you, biatch. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Spendin all dat time down up in tha cellar, siftin all up in dem oldschool papers, all dat oldschool history. Talkin up in yo' chill-"

"In mah chill?" Jack asked. His grill wore a cold-ass lil cautious, startled expression. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. "I rap up in mah chill?"

"Most of it is slurry. Once I gots up ta use tha bathroom n' you was saying, 'To hell wit it, brang up in tha slots at least, no one will know, no one will eva know. ' Another time you woke me right up, practically yelling, `Unmask, unmask, unmask. "'

"Jizzy Christ," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, n' rubbed a hand over his wild lil' grill yo. Dude looked ill.

"All yo' oldschool drankin habits, like a muthafucka. Chewin Excedrin. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Wipin yo' grill all tha time. Cranky up in tha mornin fo' realz. And you haven't been able ta finish tha play yet, have yo slick ass?"

"No. Not yet yo, but it's only a matta of time. I've been thankin bout suttin' else... a freshly smoked up project-"

"This hotel. Da project Al Shockley called you about. Da one da thug wanted you ta drop."

"How tha fuck do you know bout that?" Jack barked. "Were you listenin in, biatch? You-"

"No," her big-ass booty holla'd. "I couldn't have listened up in if I'd wanted to, n' you'd know dat if you was thankin straight. Danny n' I was downstairs dat night. Da switchboard is shut down. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Our beeper upstairs was tha only one up in tha hotel dat was working, cuz it's patched directly tha fuck into tha outside line. Yo ass holla'd at mah crazy ass so yo ass."

"Then how tha fuck could you know what tha fuck Al holla'd at mah crazy ass son?"

"Danny holla'd at mah dirty ass. Danny knew. Da same way da perved-out muthafucka sometimes knows when thangs is misplaced, or when playas is thankin bout divorce."

"Da doctor holla'd-"

Bitch shook her head impatiently. "Da doctor was full of shiznit n' we both know dat shit. We've known all dat shiznit tha time. Remember when Danny holla'd da thug wanted ta peep tha firetrucks, biatch? That was no hunch yo. Dude was just a funky-ass baby yo. Dude knows thangs fo' realz. And now I'm afraid..." Biatch looked all up in tha bruises on Danny's neck.

"Did yo dirty ass straight-up know Uncle Al had called me, Danny?"

Danny nodded. "Dude was straight-up mad, Daddy. Because you called Mista Muthafuckin Ullman n' Mista Muthafuckin Ullman called his muthafuckin ass. Uncle AI didn't want you ta write anythang bout tha hotel."

"Jesus," Jack holla'd again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. "Da bruises, Danny. Dum diddy-dum, here I come biaaatch! Who tha fuck tried ta strangle yo slick ass?"

Danny's grill went dark. "Her," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. "Da biatch up in dat room. In 217. Da dead lady." His lips fuckin started ta tremble again, n' da perved-out muthafucka seized tha teacup n' drank.

Jack n' Wendy exchanged a scared look over his bowed head.

"Do you know anythang bout this?" he axed her muthafuckin ass.

Bitch shook her head. "Not bout this, no."

"Danny?" Dude raised tha boy's frightened face. "Try, son. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. We're right here."

"I knew dat shiznit was shitty here," Danny holla'd up in a low voice. "Ever since we was up in Boulder n' shit. Because Tony gave me trips bout dat shit."

"What dreams?"

"I can't remember every last muthafuckin thang yo. Dude flossed mah crazy ass tha Overpeep night, wit a skull n' crossbones on tha front fo' realz. And there was pounding. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Something... I don't remember what... chasin afta mah dirty ass fo' realz. A monsta n' shit. Tony flossed mah crazy ass bout redrum."

"What's that, doc?" Wendy asked.

Dude shook his head. "I don't know."

"Rum, like yo-ho-ho n' a funky-ass forty of rum?" Jack asked.

Danny shook his head again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. "I don't know. Then we gots here, n' Mista Muthafuckin yo. Hallorann talked ta me up in his car. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Because dat schmoooove muthafucka has tha shine, like a muthafucka."

"Shine?"

"It's..." Danny done cooked up a sweeping, all-encompassin gesture wit his hands. "It's bein able ta KNOW thangs. To know thangs. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Sometimes you peep thangs. Like me knowin Uncle Al called. And Mista Muthafuckin yo. Hallorann knowin you call me doc. Mista Muthafuckin yo. Hallorann, da thug was peelin potatoes up in tha Army when he knew his brutha gots capped up in a train crash fo' realz. And when his schmoooove ass called home dat shiznit was true."

"Holy God," Jack whispered. "You're not makin dis up, is you, Dan?"

Danny shook his head violently. "Fuck dat shit, I swear ta Dogg." Then, wit a funky-ass bust a nut on of pride he added: "Mista Muthafuckin yo. Hallorann holla'd I had tha dopest shine of mah playas he eva met. We could rap back n' forth ta each other without hardly openin our grills."

His muthafathas looked at each other again, frankly stunned.

"Mista Muthafuckin yo. Hallorann gots me ridin' solo cuz da thug was worried," Danny went on. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. "Dude holla'd dis was a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shitty-ass place fo' playas whoz ass shine yo. Dude holla'd he'd peeped thangs. I saw something, too; Right afta I talked ta his muthafuckin ass. When Mista Muthafuckin Ullman was takin our asses around."

"What was it?" Jack asked.

"In tha Presidential Sweet. On tha wall by tha door goin tha fuck into tha bedroom fo' realz. A whole lot of blood n' some other stuff. Gushy stuff. I think... dat tha gushy shiznit must done been domes."

"Oh mah God," Jack holla'd.

Wendy was now straight-up pale, her lips nearly gray.

"This place," Jack holla'd. "Some pretty shitty types owned it awhile back. Organization playas from Las Vegas."

"Crooks?" Danny asked.

"Yeah, crooks." Dude looked at Wendy. "In 1966 a funky-ass big-time hood named Vito Gienelli gots capped up there, along wit his cold-ass two bodyguards. There was a picture up in tha newspaper n' shit. Danny just busted lyrics bout tha picture."

"Mista Muthafuckin yo. Hallorann holla'd da perved-out muthafucka saw some other stuff," Danny holla'd at dem wild-ass muthafuckas. "Once bout tha playground. And once dat shiznit was suttin' shitty up in dat room. 217 fo' realz. A maid saw it n' lost her thang cuz dat dunkadelic hoe talked bout dat shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So Mista Muthafuckin yo. Hallorann went up n' da perved-out muthafucka saw it like a muthafucka. But da ruffneck didn't rap bout it cuz da ruffneck didn't wanna lose his thang. Except tha pimpin' muthafucka holla'd at mah crazy ass never ta go up in there, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. But I done did. Because I believed his ass when da perved-out muthafucka holla'd tha thangs you saw here couldn't hurt you, biatch." This last was nearly whispered up in a low, husky voice, n' Danny touched tha puffed circle of bruises on his neck.

"What bout tha playground?" Jack axed up in a strange, casual voice.

"I don't know. Da playground, da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. And tha hedge muthafuckas."

Jack jumped a lil, n' Wendy looked at his ass curiously.

"Has you done peeped anythang down there, Jack?"

"No," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. "Nothing."

Danny was lookin at his muthafuckin ass.

"Nothing," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd again, mo' calmly fo' realz. And dat was true yo. Dude had been tha sucka of a hallucination. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. And dat was all.

"Danny, we gotta hear bout tha biatch," Wendy holla'd gently.

So Danny holla'd at dem yo, but his fuckin lyrics came up in cyclic bursts, sometimes almost vergin on incomprehensible garble up in his hurry ta spit it up n' be free of it yo. Dude pushed tighta n' tighta against his crazy-ass mother's breasts as tha pimpin' muthafucka talked.

"I went in," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. "I stole tha passkey n' went in. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Dat shiznit was like I couldn't help mah dirty ass. I had ta know fo' realz. And she... tha lady... was up in tha tub. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch was dead as fuckin fried chicken. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. All swelled up. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch was nuh-nuh... didn't have no threadz on." Dude looked miserably at his crazy-ass mutha n' shit. "And her big-ass booty started ta git up n' dat biiiiatch wanted mah dirty ass. I know her dope ass did cuz I could feel dat shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch wasn't even thinking, not tha way you n' Daddy think. Dat shiznit was black... dat shiznit was hurt-think... like... like tha wasps dat night up in mah room! Only wantin ta hurt. Like tha wasps."

Dude swallowed n' there was silence fo' a moment, all on tha down-low while tha image of tha wasps sank tha fuck into dem wild-ass muthafuckas.

"So I ran," Danny holla'd. "I ran but tha door was closed. I left it open but dat shiznit was closed. I didn't be thinkin bout just openin it again n' again n' again n' hustlin out. I was trippin like a muthafucka. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So I just... I leaned against tha door n' closed mah eyes n' thought of how tha fuck Mista Muthafuckin yo. Hallorann holla'd tha thangs here was just like pictures up in a funky-ass book n' if I... kept sayin ta mah dirty ass... you're not there, go away, you're not there... dat biiiiatch would go away. But it didn't work."

His voice fuckin started ta rise hysterically.

"Bitch grabbed mah dirty ass... turned mah crazy ass around... I could peep her eyes... how tha fuck her eyes were... n' her big-ass booty started ta choke mah dirty ass... I could smell her muthafuckin ass... I could smell how tha fuck dead dat biiiiatch was... s"

"Quit now, shhh," Wendy holla'd, alarmed. "Stop, Danny. It's all right. It-"

Bitch was gettin locked n loaded ta go tha fuck into her croon again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da Wendy Torrizzle Allpurpose Croon. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Pat. Pending.

"Let his ass finish," Jack holla'd curtly.

"There isn't any more," Danny holla'd. "I passed out. Either cuz dat biiiiatch was chokin me or just cuz I was trippin like a muthafucka. When I came to, I was trippin you n' Mommy was fightin over me n' you wanted ta do tha Shiznitty Thin again, Daddy. Then I knew it wasn't a thugged-out trip at all... n' I was awake... and... I wet mah pants, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. I wet mah baggy-ass pants like a funky-ass baby." His head fell tha fuck back against Wendy's sweata n' his thugged-out lil' punk-ass fuckin started ta cry wit wack weakness, his handz lyin limp n' dropped up in his fuckin lap.

Jack gots up. "Take care of his muthafuckin ass."

"What is you goin ta do?" Her grill was full of dread.

"I'm goin up ta dat room, what tha fuck did you be thinkin I was goin ta do, biatch? Have coffee, biatch? "

"No! Don't, Jack, please don't!"

"Wendy, if there's one of mah thugs up in tha hotel, we gotta know."

"Don't you dare leave our asses alone!" her big-ass booty shrieked at his muthafuckin ass. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Spittle flew from her lips wit tha force of her cry like a muthafucka.

Jack holla'd: "Wendy, that's a remarkable imitation of yo' momma."

Bitch burst tha fuck into tears then, unable ta cover her grill cuz Danny was on her lap.

"I'm sorry," Jack holla'd. "But I have to, you know. I'm tha goddam caretaker n' shit. It's what tha fuck I'm paid for."

Bitch only cried harder n' he left her dat way, goin outta tha kitchen, rubbin his crazy-ass grill wit his handkerchizzle as tha door swung shut behind his muthafuckin ass.

"Don't worry, mommy," Danny holla'd. "He'll be all right yo. Dude don't shine. Nothang here can hurt his muthafuckin ass."

Through her tears her big-ass booty holla'd, "Fuck dat shit, I don't believe that."

Chapta 30. 217 Revisited
Dude took tha elevator up n' dat shiznit was strange, cuz none of dem had used tha elevator since they moved in. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude threw tha brass handle over n' it wheezed vibratoriously up tha shaft, tha brass grate rattlin madly. Wendy had a legit claustrophobe's horror of tha elevator, he knew. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch envisioned tha three of dem trapped up in it between floors while tha winta storms raged outside, dat thugged-out biiiatch could peep dem growin thinner n' weaker, starvin ta dirtnap. Or like dinin on each other, tha way dem Rugby playas had. Dude remembered a funky-ass bumper sticker dat schmoooove muthafucka had peeped up in Boulder, RUGBY PLAYERS EAT THEIR OWN DEAD yo. Dude could be thinkin of others. YOU ARE WHAT YOU EAT. Or menu items. Boy it's gettin hot, yes indeed it is. Yo, wuz crackalackin', biatch? Yo ass is smokin tha Overlook Dinin Room, Pride of tha Rockies. Put ya muthafuckin choppers up if ya feel dis! Eat up in Splendor all up in tha Roof of tha World. Human Haunch Broiled Over Matches La Specialite de la Maison. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da contemptuous smile flicked over his wild lil' features again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. As tha number 2 rose on tha shaft wall, tha pimpin' muthafucka threw tha brass handle back ta tha home posizzle n' tha elevator hoopty creaked ta a stop yo. Dude took his Excedrin from his thugged-out lil' pocket, shook three of dem tha fuck into his hand, n' opened tha elevator door. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Nothang up in tha Overlook frightened his muthafuckin ass yo. Dude felt dat he n' it was simpdtico.

Dude strutted up tha hall flippin his Excedrin tha fuck into his crazy-ass grill n' chewin dem one by one yo. Dude rounded tha corner tha fuck into tha short corridor off tha main hall. Da door ta Room 217 was ajar, n' tha passkey hung from tha lock on its white paddle.

Dude frowned, feelin a wave of irritation n' even real anger n' shit. Whatever had come of it, tha pimp had been trespassin yo. Dude had been holla'd at, n' holla'd at bluntly, dat certain areaz of tha hotel was off limits: tha shiznit shed, tha basement, n' all of tha hommie rooms yo. Dude would rap ta Danny bout dat just as soon as tha pimp was over his wild lil' fright yo. Dude would rap ta his ass reasonably but sternly. There was nuff fathers whoz ass would have done mo' than just talk. They would have administered a phat bobbin, n' like dat was what tha fuck Danny needed. If tha pimp had gotten a scare, wasn't dat at least his just deserts?

Dude strutted down ta tha door, removed tha passkey, dropped it tha fuck into his thugged-out lil' pocket, n' stepped inside. Da overhead light was on. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude glanced all up in tha bed, saw dat shiznit was not rumpled, n' then strutted directly across ta tha bathroom door fo' realz. A curious certainty had grown up in his muthafuckin ass fo' realz. Although Watson had mentioned no names or room numbers, Jack felt shizzle dat dis was tha room tha lawyer's hoe n' her stud had shared, dat dis was tha bathroom where dat freaky freaky biatch had been found dead, full of barbiturates n' Colorado Lounge booze.

Dude pushed tha mirror-backed bathroom door open n' stepped all up in cause I gots dem finger-lickin' chickens wit tha siz-auce. Da light up in here was off yo. Dude turned it on n' observed tha long, Pullman-car room, furnished up in tha distinctizzle early nineteen-hundreds-remodeled-in-the-twentizzles steez dat seemed common ta all Overlook bathrooms, except fo' tha ones on tha third floor-those was properly Byzantine, as befitted tha royalty, suckas, porno stars, n' capos whoz ass had stayed there over tha years.

Da shower curtain, a pallid pastel pink, was drawn protectively round tha long claw-footed tub.

(nevertheless they did move)

And fo' tha last time he felt his freshly smoked up sense of surenizz (almost cockiness) dat had come over his ass when Danny ran ta his ass shoutin Dat shiznit was her playa! Dat shiznit was her playa! desertin his muthafuckin ass fo' realz. A chilled finger pressed gently against tha base of his spine, coolin his ass off ten degrees. Dat shiznit was joined by others n' they suddenly rippled all tha way up his back ta his crazy-ass medulla oblongata, playin his spine like a jungle instrument.

His anger at Danny evaporated, n' as da perved-out muthafucka stepped forward n' pushed tha shower curtain back his crazy-ass grill was dry n' he felt only sympathy fo' his fuckin lil hustla n' terror fo' his dirty ass.

Da tub was dry n' empty.

Relief n' irritation vented up in a sudden "Pahl" sound dat escaped his compressed lips like a straight-up lil' small-ass explosive. Da tub had been scrubbed clean all up in tha end of tha season; except fo' tha rust stain under tha twin faucets, it sparkled. There was a gangbangin' faint but definable smell of cleanser, tha kind dat can irritate yo' nozzle wit tha smell of its own righteousnizz fo' weeks, even months, afta it has been used.

Dude bent down n' ran his wild lil' fingertips along tha bottom of tha tub. Dry as a funky-ass bone. Not even a hint of moisture. Da pimp had been either hallucinatin or outright lyin yo. Dude felt mad salty again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. That was when tha bathmat on tha floor caught his thugged-out attention. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude frowned down at dat shit. What was a funky-ass bathmat bustin up in here, biatch? It should be down up in tha linen cupboard all up in tha end of tha win wit tha rest of tha sheets n' towels n' pillow slips fo' realz. All tha linen was supposed ta be there, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. Not even tha bedz was straight-up made up in these hommie rooms; tha mattresses had been zipped tha fuck into clear plastic n' then covered wit bedspreadz yo. Dude supposed Danny might have gone down n' gotten it-the passkey would open tha linen cupboard-but why, biatch? Dude brushed tha tipz of his wild lil' fingers back n' forth across dat shit. Da bathmat was bone dry.

Dude went back ta tha bathroom door n' stood up in dat shit. Everythang was all right. Da pimp had been trippin. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. There was not a thang outta place. Dat shiznit was a lil puzzlin bout tha bathmat, granted yo, but tha logical explanation was dat some chambermaid, hurryin like mad on tha last dizzle of tha season, had just forgotten ta pick it up. Other than that, every last muthafuckin thang was-

His nostrils flared a lil. Disinfectant, dat self-righteous smell, cleaner-than-thou fo'sho fo' realz. And-

Soap?

Surely not. But once tha smell had been identified, dat shiznit was too clear ta dismiss. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Soap fo' realz. And not one of dem postcard-size barz of Ivory they provide you wit up in hotels n' motels, either n' shit. This scent was light n' perfumed, a lady's soap. Well shiiiit, it had a pink sort of smell. Camay or Lowila, tha brand dat Wendy had always used up in Stovington.

(It's nothing. It's yo' imagination.)

(yes like tha hedges nevertheless they did move)

(They did not move!)

Dude crossed jerkily ta tha door which gave on tha hall, feelin tha irregular thump of a headache beginnin at his cold-ass temples. Too much had happened todizzle, too much by far yo. Dude wouldn't spank tha pimp or shake him, just rap ta his ass yo, but by God, da thug wasn't goin ta add Room 217 ta his thugged-out lil' problems. Boy it's gettin hot, yes indeed it is. Not on tha basiz of a thugged-out dry bathmat n' a gangbangin' faint smell of Lowila soap yo. He-

There was a sudden rattling, metallic sound behind his muthafuckin ass. Well shiiiit, it came just as his hand closed round tha doorknob, n' a observer might have thought tha brushed steel of tha knob carried a electric charge yo. Dude jerked convulsively, eyes widening, other facial features drawin in, grimacing.

Then dat schmoooove muthafucka had control of his dirty ass, a lil, anyway, n' he let 90 of tha doorknob n' turned carefully around. His joints creaked. Dude fuckin started ta strutt back ta tha bathroom door, step by leaden step.

Da shower curtain, which dat schmoooove muthafucka had pushed back ta look tha fuck into tha tub, was now drawn. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da metallic rattle, which had sounded ta his ass like a stir of bones up in a cold-ass lil crypt, had been tha curtain rings on tha overhead bar. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Jack stared all up in tha curtain. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. His grill felt as if it had been heavily waxed, all dead skin on tha outside, live, bangin' rivuletz of fear on tha inside. Da way dat schmoooove muthafucka had felt on tha playground.

There was suttin' behind tha pink plastic shower curtain. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. There was suttin' up in tha tub.

Dude could peep it, ill defined n' obscure all up in tha plastic, a nearly amorphous shape. Well shiiiit, it could done been anythang fo' realz. A trick of tha light. Da shadow of tha shower attachment fo' realz. A biatch long dead n' reclinin up in her bath, a funky-ass bar of Lowila up in one stiffenin hand as dat biiiiatch waited patiently fo' whatever freak might come.

Jack holla'd at his dirty ass ta step forward boldly n' rake tha shower curtain back. To expose whatever might be there, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. Instead tha pimpin' muthafucka turned wit jerky, marionette strides, his thugged-out ass whammin frightfully up in his chest, n' went back tha fuck into tha bed/sittin room.

Da door ta tha hall was shut.

Dude stared at it fo' a long, immobile second. Dude could taste his cold-ass terror now, nahmeean, biatch? Dat shiznit was up in tha back of his cold-ass throat like a taste of gone-over cherries.

Dude strutted ta tha door wit dat same jerky stride n' forced his wild lil' fingers ta curl round tha knob.

(It won't open.)

But it done did.

Dude turned off tha light wit a gangbangin' fumblin gesture, stepped up tha fuck into tha hall, n' pulled tha door shut without lookin back. From inside, da perved-out muthafucka seemed ta hear a odd wet thumpin sound, far off, dim, as if suttin' had just scrambled belatedly outta tha tub, as if ta greet a cold-ass lil caller, as if it had realized tha calla was leavin before tha hood amenitizzles had been completed n' so dat shiznit was now rushin ta tha door, all purple n' grinning, ta invite tha calla back inside. Perhaps alllll muthafuckin day.

Footsteps approachin tha door or only tha heartbeat up in his wild lil' fuckin ears?

Dude fumbled all up in tha passkey. Well shiiiit, it seemed sludgy, unwillin ta turn up in tha lock yo. Dude beat down tha passkey. Da tumblaz suddenly fell tha fuck n' da perved-out muthafucka stepped back against tha corridor's far wall, a lil groan of relief escapin his muthafuckin ass yo. Dude closed his wild lil' fuckin eyes n' all tha oldschool phrases fuckin started ta parade all up in his crazy-ass mind, it seemed there must be hundredz of them,

(crackin up not playin wit a gangbangin' full deck lostya marblez muthafucka just went loony tunes da thug went up n' over tha high side went bananas lost his wild lil' footbizzle crackers nuts half a seabag)

all meanin tha same thang: losin yo' mind.

"No," da thug whimpered, hardly aware dat dat schmoooove muthafucka had been reduced ta this, whimperin wit his wild lil' fuckin eyes shut like a cold-ass lil child. "Oh shiiiiiiiit, Dogg. Please, God, no."

But below tha tumble of his chaotic thoughts, below tha triphammer beat of his thugged-out ass, his schmoooove ass could hear tha soft n' futile sound of tha doorknob bein turned ta n' fro as suttin' locked up in tried helplessly ta git out, suttin' dat wanted ta hook up him, suttin' dat wanna be introduced ta his crew as tha storm shrieked round dem n' white daylight became black night. If he opened his wild lil' fuckin eyes n' saw dat doorknob movin da thug would go mad. So he kept dem shut, n' afta a unknowable time, there was stillness.

Jack forced his dirty ass ta open his wild lil' fuckin eyes, half-convinced dat when da ruffneck did, dat biiiiatch would be standin before his muthafuckin ass. But tha hall was empty.

Dude felt peeped just tha same.

Dude looked all up in tha peephole up in tha centa of tha door n' wondered what tha fuck would happen if he approached it, stared tha fuck into ft. What would his thugged-out lil' punk-ass be eyebizzle ta eyebizzle with?

His feet was moving

(feets don't fail me now)

before he realized it yo. Dude turned dem away from tha door n' strutted down ta tha main hall, his wild lil' feet whisperin on tha blue-black jungle carpet yo. Dude stopped halfway ta tha stairs n' looked all up in tha fire extinguisher n' shiznit yo. Dude thought dat tha foldz of canvas was arranged up in a slightly different manner n' shiznit fo' realz. And da thug was like shizzle dat tha brass nozzle had been pointin toward tha elevator when his schmoooove ass came up tha hall. Now dat shiznit was pointin tha other way.

"I didn't peep dat at all," Jack Torrizzle holla'd like clearly yo. His grill was white n' haggard n' his crazy-ass grill kept tryin ta grin.

But da ruffneck didn't take tha elevator back down. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Dat shiznit was too much like a open grill. Too much by half yo. Dude took tha stairs.

Chapta 31. Da Verdict
Dude stepped tha fuck into tha kitchen n' looked at them, bouncin tha passkey all dem inches up off his fuckin left hand, makin tha chain on tha white metal tongue jingle, then catchin it again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Danny was pallid n' worn out. Wendy had been crying, da perved-out muthafucka saw; her eyes was red n' darkly circled. Dude felt a sudden burst of gladnizz at all dis bullshit yo. Dude wasn't sufferin alone, dat was sure.

They looked at his ass without bustin lyrics.

"Nothang there," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, astounded by tha heartinizz of his voice. "Not a thang."

Dude bounced tha passkey up n' down, up n' down, smilin reassuringly at them, watchin tha relief spread over they faces, n' thought dat schmoooove muthafucka had never up in his wild lil' freakadelic game wanted a thugged-out drank so badly as da ruffneck did n' aint a thugged-out damn thang dat yo' ass can do.

Chapta 32. Da Bedroom
Late dat afternoon Jack gots a cold-ass lil cot from tha first-floor storage room n' put it up in tha corner of they bedroom. Wendy had expected dat tha pimp would be half tha night gettin ta chill yo, but Danny was noddin before "Da Waltons" was half over, n' fifteen minutes afta they had tucked biro up in da thug was far down up in chill, moveless, one crew tucked under his cheek. Wendy sat watchin him, holdin her place up in a gangbangin' fat paperback copy of Cashelmara wit one finger n' shit. Jack sat at his fuckin lil' desk, lookin at his thugged-out lil' play.

"Oh shit," Jack holla'd.

Wendy looked up from her contemplation of Danny. "What?"

"Nothing."

Dude looked down all up in tha fuck wit smolderin ill-temper n' shiznit yo. How tha fuck could dat schmoooove muthafucka have thought dat shiznit was good, biatch? Dat shiznit was puerile. Well shiiiit, it had been done a thousand times. Worse, dat schmoooove muthafucka had no clue how tha fuck ta finish dat shit. Once it had seemed simple enough cause I gots dem finger-lickin' chickens wit tha siz-auce. Denker, up in a gangbangin' fit of rage, seizes tha poker from beside tha fireplace n' beats saintly Gary ta dirtnap. Then, standin spread-legged over tha body, tha bloody poker up in one hand, da perved-out muthafucka screams all up in tha crew: "It's here somewhere n' I'ma find dat shiznit son!" Then, as tha lights dim n' tha curtain is slowly drawn, tha crew sees Gary's body grill down on tha forestage as Denker strides ta tha upstage bookcase n' feverishly begins pullin books from tha shelves, lookin at them, throwin dem aside yo. Dude shitty thought dat shiznit was suttin' oldschool enough ta be new, a play whose novelty ridin' solo might be enough ta peep it all up in a successful Broadway run: a gangbangin' fuck up in five acts.

But, up in addizzle ta his sudden diversion of interest ta tha Overlooks history, suttin' else had happened. Dude had pimped opposin vibe bout his characters. This was suttin' like new. Ordinarily he was horny bout all of his characters, tha phat n' tha bad. Dude was glad da ruffneck done did. Well shiiiit, it allowed his ass ta try ta peep all of they sides n' KNOW they motivations mo' clearly yo. His straight-up story, sold ta a lil' small-ass southern Maine magazine called Contraband fo' copies, had been a piece called "Da Monkey Is Here, Pizzle DeLong." It had been on some cold-ass lil lil pimp molesta bout ta commit suicizzle up in his wild lil' furnished room. Da lil pimp molester's name had been Pizzle DeLong, Monkey ta his wild lil' playas. Jack had was horny bout Monkey straight-up much yo. Dude sympathized wit Monkey's bizarre needs. knowin dat Monkey was not tha only one ta blame fo' tha three rape-murdaz up in his thugged-out lil' past. There had been shitty muthafathas, tha daddy a funky-ass beata as his own daddy had been, tha mutha a limp n' silent dishrag as his crazy-ass mutha had been. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. A homosapien experience up in grammar school. Public humiliation. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Worse experiences up in high school n' college yo. Dude had been arrested n' busted ta a institution afta exposin his dirty ass ta a pair of lil hoes gettin off a school bus. Worst of all, dat schmoooove muthafucka had been dissed n' dismissed from tha institution, let back up onto tha streets, cuz tha playa up in charge had decided da thug was all right. This dudez name had been Grimmer n' shit. Grimmer had known dat Monkey DeLong was exhibitin deviant symptoms yo, but dat schmoooove muthafucka had freestyled tha good, hopeful report n' had let his ass go anyway. Jack was horny bout n' sympathized wit Grimmer, like a muthafucka. Grimmer had ta run a understaffed n' underfunded institution n' try ta keep tha whole thang together wit spit, balin wire, n' nickle-and-dime appropriations from a state legislature whoz ass had ta go back n' grill tha voters. Grimmer knew dat Monkey could interact wit other people, dat da ruffneck did not soil his baggy-ass pants or try ta stab his wild lil' fellow inmates wit tha scissors yo. Dude did not be thinkin da thug was Napoleon. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da staff psychiatrist up in charge of Monkey's case thought there was a funky-ass better-than-even chizzle dat Monkey could make it on tha street, n' they both knew dat tha longer a playa is up in a institution tha mo' his schmoooove ass comes ta need dat closed environment, like a junkie wit his smack fo' realz. And meanwhile, playas was knockin down tha doors. Paranoids, schizoids, cycloids, semicatatonics, pimps whoz ass fronted ta have gone ta heaven up in flyin saucers, dem hoes whoz ass had burned they children's sex organs off wit Bic lighters, alcoholics, pyromaniacs, kleptomaniacs, manic-depressives, suicidals. Tough oldschool ghetto, baby. If you're not bolted together tightly, you're gonna shake, rattle, n' roll before you turn thirty. Jack could sympathize wit Grimmer's problem yo. Dude could sympathize wit tha muthafathaz of tha cappin' suckas. With tha murdered lil pimps theyselves, of course fo' realz. And wit Monkey DeLong. Let tha reader lay blame. In dem minutes dat schmoooove muthafucka hadn't wanted ta judge. Da cloak of tha moralist sat badly on his shoulders.

Dude had started Da Little School up in tha same optimistic vein. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. But lately dat schmoooove muthafucka had begun ta chizzle up sides, n' worse still, dat schmoooove muthafucka had come ta loathe his hero, Gary Benson. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Originally conceived as a funky-ass bright pimp mo' cursed wit scrilla than pimped wit it, a funky-ass pimp whoz ass wanted mo' than anythang ta compile a phat record so his schmoooove ass could git all up in a phat universitizzle cuz dat schmoooove muthafucka had gots admission n' not cuz his wild lil' daddy had pulled strings, dat schmoooove muthafucka had become ta Jack a kind of simperin Goody Two-shoes, a postulant before tha altar of knowledge rather than a sincere acolyte, a outward paragon of Boy Scout virtues, inwardly cynical, filled not wit real brilliizzle (as dat schmoooove muthafucka had first been conceived) but only wit sly animal cunnin fo' realz. All all up in tha play he unfailingly addressed Denker as "sir," just as Jack had taught his own lil hustla ta address dem olda n' dem up in authoritizzle as "sir." Dude thought dat Danny used tha word like sincerely, n' Gary Benston as originally conceived had too yo, but as dat schmoooove muthafucka had begun Act V, it had come mo' n' mo' straight fuckin ta his ass dat Gary was rockin tha word satirically, outwardly straight-faced while tha Gary Benston inside was muggin n' leerin at Denker n' shit. Denker, whoz ass had never had any of tha thangs Gary had. Denker, whoz ass had had ta work all his wild lil' freakadelic game just ta become head of a single lil school. Dum diddy-dum, here I come biaaatch! Who tha fuck was now faced wit fuck up over dis thugged-out, innocent-seemin rich pimp whoz ass had cheated on his Final Composizzle n' had then cunningly covered his cold-ass tracks. Jack had peeped Denker tha mackdaddy as not much different from tha struttin Downtown Gangsta lil Caesars up in they banana mackdaddydoms, standin dissidents up against tha wall of tha handiest squash or handbizzle court, a super-zealot up in a cold-ass lil comparatively lil' small-ass puddle, a playa whose every last muthafuckin whim becomes a cold-ass lil crusade. In tha beginnin dat schmoooove muthafucka had wanted ta use his thugged-out lil' play as a microcosm ta say suttin' bout tha abuse of juice n' shit. Now tha pimpin' muthafucka tended mo' n' mo' ta peep Denker as a Mista Muthafuckin Chips figure, n' tha fuck up was not tha intellectual rackin of Gary Benston but rather tha destruction of a kindly oldschool mackdaddy n' headmasta unable ta peep all up in tha cynical wilez of dis monsta masqueradin as a funky-ass boy.

Dude hadn't been able ta finish tha play.

Now da perved-out muthafucka sat lookin down at it, scowling, wonderin if there was any way his schmoooove ass could salvage tha thang yo. Dude didn't straight-up be thinkin there was yo. Dude shitty begun wit one play n' it had somehow turned tha fuck into another, presto-chango. Well, what tha fuck tha hell. Either way it had been done before. Either way dat shiznit was a load of shiznit fo' realz. And why was da ruffneck rollin his dirty ass wild-ass bout it tonight anyway, biatch? Afta tha dizzle just gone by dat shiznit was no wonder his schmoooove ass couldn't be thinkin straight.

"-get his ass down?"

Dude looked up, tryin ta blink tha cobwebs away. "Huh?"

"I holla'd, how tha fuck is we goin ta git his ass down, biatch? We've gots ta git his ass outta here, Jack."

For a moment his wits was so scattered dat da thug wasn't even shizzle what tha fuck dat biiiiatch was poppin' off about. Then he realized n' uttered a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass short, barkin laugh.

"Yo ass say dat as if it was so easy as fuck ."

"I didn't mean-"

"No problem, Wendy. I'll just chizzle threadz up in dat telephone booth down up in tha lobby n' fly his ass ta Denver on mah back. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Supamayne Jack Torrance, they called mah crazy ass up in mah salad days."

Her grill registered slow hurt.

"I KNOW tha problem, Jack. Da radio is broken. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da snow... but you gotta KNOW Danny's problem. My fuckin God, don't yo slick ass, biatch? Dude was nearly catatonic, Jack! What if dat schmoooove muthafucka hadn't come outta that?"

"But da ruffneck did," Jack holla'd, a trifle shortly yo. Dude had been frightened at Danny's blank-eyed, slack-faced state too, of course dat schmoooove muthafucka had. At first. But tha mo' tha pimpin' muthafucka thought bout it, tha mo' da thug wondered if it hadn't been a piece of play-actin put on ta escape his thugged-out lil' punishment yo. Dude had, afta all, been trespassing.

"All tha same," her big-ass booty holla'd. Biatch came ta his ass n' sat on tha end of tha bed by his fuckin lil' desk yo. Her grill was both surprised n' worried. "Jack, tha bruises on his neck! Somethang gots at him! And I want his ass away from dat shiznit son!"

"Don't shout," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. "My fuckin head aches, Wendy. I'm as worried bout dis as yo ass is, so please... don't... shout."

"All right," her big-ass booty holla'd, lowerin her voice. "I won't shout. But I don't KNOW you, Jack. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Someone is up in here wit our asses fo' realz. And not a straight-up sick one of mah thugs, either n' shit. We gotta git down ta Sidewinder, not just Danny but all of us. Quickly fo' realz. And you, biatch... you're chillin there readin yo' play!"

" 'We gotta git down, we gotta git down,' you keep sayin dis shit. Yo ass must be thinkin I straight-up be Superman."

"I be thinkin you're mah homeboy," her big-ass booty holla'd softly, n' looked down at her hands.

His temper flared. Dude slammed tha playscript down, knockin tha edgez of tha pile outta legit again n' again n' again n' crumplin tha sheets on tha bottom.

"It's time you gots a shitload of tha home truths tha fuck into you, Wendy. Yo ass don't seem ta have internalized them, as tha sociologists say. They're knockin round up in yo' head like a funky-ass bunch of loose cueballs. Yo ass need ta blast dem tha fuck into tha pockets, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. Yo ass need ta KNOW dat we is snowed in."

Danny had suddenly become actizzle up in his bed. Still chillin, dat schmoooove muthafucka had begun ta twist n' turn, so check it before ya wreck it. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da way he always did when we fought, Wendy thought dismally fo' realz. And we're bustin it again.

"Don't wake his ass up, Jack. Please."

Dude glanced over at Danny n' a shitload of tha flush went outta his cheeks. "Okay. I'm sorry bout dat bullshit. I'm sorry I sounded mad, Wendy. It's not straight-up fo' you, biatch. But I broke tha radio. If it's anybody's fault it's mine. That was our big-ass link ta tha outside. Olly-oily-in-for-free. Please come git us, Mista Ranger n' shit. We can't stay up dis late."

"Don't," her big-ass booty holla'd, n' put a hand on his shoulder n' shiznit yo. Dude leaned his head against dat shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch brushed his afro wit her other hand. "I guess you've gots a right, afta what tha fuck I accused you of. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Sometimes I be like mah mutha n' shit. I can be a funky-ass biiiatch. But you gotta KNOW dat some thangs... is hard ta git over n' shit. Yo ass gotta KNOW that."

"Do you mean his thugged-out arm?" His lips had thinned.

"Yes," Wendy holla'd, n' then she rushed on: "But it's not just you, biatch. I worry when he goes up ta play. I worry bout his ass wantin a two-wheela next year, even one wit hustlin wheels. I worry bout his cold-ass teeth n' his wild lil' fuckin eyesight n' bout dis thang, what tha fuck his schmoooove ass calls his shine. I worry. Because he's lil n' da perved-out muthafucka seems straight-up fragile n' cuz... cuz suttin' up in dis hotel seems ta want his muthafuckin ass fo' realz. And it will go all up in our asses ta git his ass if it has to. That's why we must git his ass out, Jack. I know dat son! I feel dat son! We must git his ass out!"

Her hand had tightened painfully on his shoulder up in her agitation yo, but da ruffneck didn't move away. One hand found tha firm weight of her left breast n' his thugged-out lil' punk-ass fuckin started ta stroke it all up in her shirt.

"Wendy," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, n' stopped. Biatch waited fo' his ass ta rearrange whatever dat schmoooove muthafucka had ta say yo. His phat hand on her breast felt good, soothing. "I could maybe snowshoe his ass down. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude could strutt part of tha way his dirty ass yo, but I would mostly gotta carry his muthafuckin ass. Well shiiiit, it would mean campin up one, two, maybe three nights, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. That would mean buildin a travois ta carry supplies n' bedrolls on. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Our thugged-out asses have tha AM/FM radio, so we could pick a thugged-out dizzle when tha drizzle forecast called fo' a three-dizzle spell of phat drizzle n' shit. But if tha forecast was wrong," he finished, his voice soft n' measured, "I be thinkin we might take a thugged-out dirt nap."

Her grill had paled. Well shiiiit, it looked shiny, almost pimply yo. Dude continued ta stroke her breast, rubbin tha bizzle of his cold-ass thumb gently over tha nipple.

Bitch done cooked up a soft sound-from his fuckin lyrics or up in erection ta his wild lil' freakadelic gentle heat on her breast, his schmoooove ass couldn't tell yo. Dude raised his hand slightly n' undid tha top button of her shirt. Wendy shifted her hairy-ass legs slightly fo' realz. All at once her jeans seemed too tight, slightly irritatin up in a pleasant sort of way.

"It would mean leavin you ridin' solo cuz you can't snowshoe worth beans. Well shiiiit, it would be maybe three minutez of not knowing. Would you want that?" His hand dropped ta tha second button, slipped it, n' tha beginnin of her cleavage was exposed.

"No," her big-ass booty holla'd up in a voice dat was slightly thick. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch glanced over at Danny yo. Dude had stopped twistin n' turnin yo. His thumb had crept back tha fuck into his crazy-ass grill. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So dat was all right. But Jack was leavin suttin' outta tha picture. Dat shiznit was too bleak. There was suttin' else... what?

"If we stay put," Jack holla'd, unbuttonin tha third n' fourth buttons wit dat same deliberate slowness, "a ranger from tha park or a game warden is goin ta poke up in here just ta smoke up how tha fuck we're bustin fo' realz. At dat point we simply tell his ass we want down. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. He'll peep ta dat shit." Dude slipped her naked breasts tha fuck into tha wide V of tha open shirt, bent, n' molded his fuckin lips round tha stem of a nipple. Dat shiznit was hard n' erect yo. Dude slipped his cold-ass tongue slowly back n' forth across it up in a way he knew she liked. Wendy moaned a lil n' arched her back.

(?Somethang I've forgotten?)

"Honey?" she asked. On they own her handz sought tha back of his head so dat when he answered his voice was muffled against her flesh.

"How tha fuck would tha ranger take our asses out?"

Dude raised his head slightly ta answer n' then settled his crazy-ass grill against tha other nipple.

"If tha helicopta was spoken fo' I guess it would gotta be by snowmobile."

(!!!)

"But our crazy asses have one of dem biaaatch! Ullman holla'd so!"

His grill froze against her breast fo' a moment, n' then da perved-out muthafucka sat up yo. Her own grill was slightly flushed, her eyes overbright. Jack's on tha other hand, was calm, as if dat schmoooove muthafucka had been readin a rather dull book instead of engagin up in foreplay wit his hoe.

"If there's a snowmobile there's no problem," her big-ass booty holla'd excitedly. "We can all three go down together."

"Wendy, I've never driven a snowmobile up in mah game."

"It can't be dat hard ta learn, so check it before ya wreck it. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Back up in Vermont you peep ten-year-oldz rollin dem up in tha fields... although what tha fuck they muthafathas can be thankin of I don't know fo' realz. And you had a motorcycle when we met." Dude had, a Honda 350cc yo. Dude had traded it up in on a Saab shortly afta he n' Wendy took up residence together.

"I suppose I could," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd slowly. "But I wonder how tha fuck well it's been maintained. Ullman n' Watson... they run dis place from May ta October n' shit. They have summertime minds. I know it won't have gas up in dat shit. There may not be plugs or a funky-ass battery, either n' shit. I don't want you ta git yo' hopes up over yo' head, Wendy."

Bitch was straight-up buckwild now, leanin over him, her breasts tumblin outta her shirt yo. Dude had a sudden impulse ta seize one n' twist it until her big-ass booty shrieked. Maybe dat would teach her ta shut tha fuck up.

"Da gas is no problem," her big-ass booty holla'd. "Da VW` n' tha hotel truck is both full. There's gas fo' tha emergency generator downstairs, like a muthafucka fo' realz. And there must be a gascan up in dat shed so you could carry extra."

"Yes," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. "There is" Actually there was three of them, two five-gallons n' a two-gallon.

"I'll bet tha sparkplugs n' tha battery is up there like a muthafucka. No Muthafucka would store they snowmobile up in one place n' tha plugs n' battery someplace else, would they?"

"Doesn't seem likely, do it?" Dude gots up n' strutted over ta where Danny lay chillin fo' realz. A spill of afro had fallen across his wild lil' forehead n' Jack brushed it away gently. Danny didn't stir.

"And if you can git it hustlin you'll take our asses out?" she axed from behind his muthafuckin ass. "On tha straight-up original gangsta dizzle tha radio say phat weather?"

For a moment da ruffneck didn't answer n' shiznit yo. Dude stood lookin down at his son, n' his crazy-ass mixed vibe dissolved up in a wave of ludd yo. Dude was tha way dat freaky freaky biatch had holla'd, vulnerable, fragile. Da marks on his neck was straight-up prominent.

"Yes," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. "I'll git it hustlin n' we'll git up as quick as we can."

"Thank God!"

Dude turned around. Biatch had taken off her hoodie n' lay on tha bed, her belly flat, her breasts aimed perkily all up in tha ceiling. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch was playin wit dem lazily, flickin all up in tha nipples. "Hurry up, gentlemen," her big-ass booty holla'd softly, "time."

After, wit no light burnin up in tha room but tha night light dat Danny had brought wit his ass from his bangin room, she lay up in tha crook of his thugged-out arm, feelin deliciously at peace. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch found it hard ta believe they could be pluggin tha Overlook wit a murderous stowaway.

"Jack?"

"Hmmmm?"

"What gots at him?"

Dude didn't answer her directly. "Dude do have something. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Some talent tha rest of our asses is missing. Da most of us, beg pardon. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. And maybe tha Overlook has something, like a muthafucka."

"Ghosts?"

"I don't know. Not up in tha Algernon Blackwood sense, that's fo' sure. Mo' like tha residuez of tha vibe of tha playas whoz ass have stayed here, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. Dope thangs n' shitty thangs. In dat sense, I suppose dat every last muthafuckin big-ass hotel has gots its pimps. Especially tha oldschool ones."

"But a thugged-out dead biatch up in tha tub... Jack, he's not losin his crazy-ass mind, is he?"

Dude gave her a funky-ass brief squeeze. "We know he goes into... well, trances, fo' want of a funky-ass betta word... from time ta time. We know dat when he's up in dem da perved-out muthafucka sometimes... sees?... thangs da ruffneck don't understand. If precognitizzle trances is possible, they're probably functionz of tha subconscious mind. Freud holla'd dat tha subconscious never speaks ta our asses up in literal language. Only up in symbols. If you trip bout bein up in a funky-ass bakery where no one speaks Gangsta, you may be worried bout yo' mobilitizzle ta support yo' crew. Or maybe just dat no one understandz you, biatch. I've read dat tha fallin trip be a standard outlet fo' vibe of insecurity. Games, lil games. Conscious on one side of tha net, subconscious on tha other, servin some cockamamie image back n' forth. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Same wit menstrual illness, wit hunches, all of dis shit. Why should precognizzle be any different, biatch? Maybe Danny straight-up did peep blood all over tha wallz of tha Presidential Suite. To a kid his thugged-out age, tha image of blood n' tha concept of dirtnap is nearly interchangeable. To kids, tha image be always mo' accessible than tha concept, anyway. Lil' Willy Carlos Williams knew that, da thug was a pediatrician. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. When we grow up, concepts gradually git easier n' our slick asses leave tha images ta tha poets... n' I'm just ramblin on."

"I gotta hear you ramble."

"Bitch holla'd it, folks. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch holla'd dat shit. Y'all heard dat shit."

"Da marks on his neck, Jack. Those is real."

"Yes yes y'all."

There was not a god damn thang else fo' a long-ass time. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch had begun ta be thinkin he must have gone ta chill n' dat biiiiatch was slippin tha fuck into a thugged-out drowse her muthafuckin ass when da perved-out muthafucka holla'd:

"I can be thinkin of two explanations fo' dem fo' realz. And neither of dem involves a gangbangin' fourth jam up in tha hotel."

"What?" Biatch came up on one elbow.

"Stigmata, maybe," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd.

"Stigmata, biatch? Isn't dat when playas bleed on Dope Fridizzle or something?"

"Yes yes y'all. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Sometimes playas whoz ass believe deeply up in Christ's divinitizzle exhibit bleedin marks on they handz n' feet durin tha Holy Week. Dat shiznit was mo' common up in tha Middle Ages than now, nahmeean, biatch? In dem minutes such playas was considered pimped by Dogg. I don't be thinkin tha Catholic Church proclaimed any of it as out-and-out miracles, which was pretty smart-ass of dem wild-ass muthafuckas. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Stigmata isn't much different from a shitload of tha thangs tha yogis can do. It's betta understood now, that's all. Da playas whoz ass KNOW tha interaction between tha mind n' tha body-study it, I mean, no one understandz it-believe our crazy asses gotz a shitload mo' control over our involuntary functions than they used ta think. Yo ass can slow yo' heartbeat if you be thinkin bout it enough cause I gots dem finger-lickin' chickens wit tha siz-auce. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Speed up yo' own metabolism. Make yo ass sweat mo' n' mo' n' mo'. Or make yo ass bleed."

"Yo ass be thinkin Danny thought dem bruises onto his neck, biatch? Jack, I just can't believe that."

"I can believe it's possible, although it seems unlikely ta me, like a muthafucka. What's mo' likely is dat da ruffneck done did it ta his dirty ass."

"To his dirty ass?"

"He's gone tha fuck into these 'trances' n' hurt his dirty ass up in tha past. Do you remember tha time all up in tha supper table, biatch? Bout two muthafuckin years ago, I think. Us thugs was super-pissed at each other n' shit. No Muthafucka poppin' off straight-up much. Then, all at once, his wild lil' fuckin eyes rolled up in his head n' da thug went face-first tha fuck into his fuckin lil' dinner n' shit. Then onto tha floor. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Remember?"

"Yes," her big-ass booty holla'd. "I shizzle do.. n' you KNOWS da thug was havin a cold-ass lil convulsion."

"Another time we was up in tha park," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. "Just Danny n' I. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Saturdizzle afternoon. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude was chillin on a swing, coastin back n' forth yo. Dude collapsed onto tha ground. Dat shiznit was like he'd been shot. I ran over n' picked his ass up n' all of a sudden he just came around. Dude sort of blinked all up in mah grill n' holla'd, `I done fucked up mah tummy. Tell Mommy ta close tha bedroom windows if it rains. ' And dat night it drizzled like hell."

"Yes yo, but-"

"And he's always comin up in wit cuts n' scraped elbows yo. His shins be lookin like a funky-ass battlefield up in distress fo' realz. And when you ask his ass how tha fuck he gots dis one or dat one, he just say `Oh, I was playing,' n' that's tha end of dat shit."

"Jack, all lil playas git bumped n' bruised up. With lil thugs it's almost constant from tha time they learn ta strutt until they're twelve or thirteen."

"And I'm shizzle Danny gets his share," Jack responded. "He's a actizzle kid. But I remember dat dizzle up in tha park n' dat night all up in tha supper table fo' realz. And I wonder if a shitload of our kid's bumps n' bruises come from just keelin over n' shit. That Dr. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Edmondz holla'd Danny done did it right up in his office, fo' Christ's sake!"

"All right. But dem bruises was fingers. I'd swear ta it yo. Dude didn't git dem fallin down."

"Dude goes tha fuck into a trance," Jack holla'd. "Maybe da perved-out muthafucka sees suttin' dat happened up in dat room fo' realz. An argument. Maybe a suicide. Violent emotions. Well shiiiit, it isn't like watchin a porno; he's up in a highly suggestible state yo. He's right up in tha damn thang yo. His subconscious is maybe visualizin whatever happened up in a symbolic way... as a thugged-out dead biatch who's kickin it again, zombie, undead, ghoul, you pick yo' term."

"You're givin me goose-bumps," her big-ass booty holla'd thickly.

"I'm givin mah dirty ass a gangbangin' few. I'm no psychiatrist yo, but it seems ta fit so well. Da struttin dead biatch as a symbol fo' dead emotions, dead lives, dat just won't give up n' go away... but cuz she's a subconscious figure, she's also his muthafuckin ass. In tha trizzle state, tha conscious Danny is submerged. Da subconscious figure is pullin tha strings. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So Danny put his handz round his own neck and-"

"Stop," her big-ass booty holla'd. "I git tha picture. I be thinkin that's mo' frightenin than havin a stranger creepin round tha halls, Jack. Yo ass can move away from a stranger n' shit. Yo ass can't move away from yo ass. You're poppin' off bout schizophrenia."

"Of a straight-up limited type," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd yo, but a trifle uneasily. "And of a straight-up special nature. Because da ruffneck do seem able ta read thoughts, n' he straight-up do seem ta have precognitizzle flashes from time ta time. I can't be thinkin of dat as menstrual illnizz no matta how tha fuck hard I try. We all have schizo deposits up in our asses anyway. I be thinkin as Danny gets older, he'll git dis under control."

"If you're right, then it's imperatizzle dat we git his ass out. Whatever dat schmoooove muthafucka has, dis hotel is makin it worse."

"I wouldn't say that," he objected. This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. "If he'd done as da thug was holla'd at, he never would have gone up ta dat room up in tha straight-up original gangsta place. Well shiiiit, it never would have happened."

"My fuckin God, Jack! Is you implyin dat bein half-strangled was a... a gangbangin' fittin punishment fo' bein off limits?"

"No... no. Of course not. But-"

"No buts," her big-ass booty holla'd, bobbin her head violently. "Da truth is, we're guessing. Us dudes aint gots any scam when he might turn a cold-ass lil corner n' run tha fuck into one of them... air pockets, one-reel horror pornos, whatever they are. We gotta git his ass away." Biatch laughed a lil up in tha darkness. "Next thang we'll be seein thangs."

"Don't rap nonsense," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, n' up in tha darknizz of tha room da perved-out muthafucka saw tha hedge lions bunchin round tha path, no longer flankin it but guardin it, horny November lions. Cold sweat sprang up on his brow.

"Yo ass didn't straight-up peep anything, did yo slick ass?" dat biiiiatch was asking. "I mean, when you went up ta dat room. Yo ass didn't peep anything?"

Da lions was gone. Now da perved-out muthafucka saw a pink pastel shower curtain wit a thugged-out dark shape loungin behind dat shit. Da closed door. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. That muffled, hurried thump, n' soundz afta it dat might done been hustlin footsteps. Da horrible, lurchin beat of his own ass as da perved-out muthafucka struggled wit tha passkey.

"Nothing," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, n' dat was true yo. Dude had been strung tip, not shizzle of what tha fuck was happenin yo. Dude hadn't had a cold-ass lil chizzle ta sift all up in his cold-ass thoughts fo' a reasonable explanation concernin tha bruises on his son's neck yo. Dude had been pretty damn suggestible his dirty ass yo. Hallucinations could sometimes be catching.

"And you haven't chizzled yo' mind, biatch? Bout tha snowmobile, I mean?"

His handz clamped tha fuck into sudden tight fists

(Quit naggin me!)

by his sides. "I holla'd I would, didn't I, biatch? I will. Now chill like a pimp. It's been a long-ass hard day."

"And how," her big-ass booty holla'd. There was a rustle of bedthreadz as dat dunkadelic hoe turned toward his ass n' busted his shoulder n' shit. "I gots a straight-up boner fo' you, Jack."

"I gots a straight-up boner fo' you too," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd yo, but da thug was only grillin tha lyrics yo. His handz was still clenched tha fuck into fists, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. They felt like rocks on tha endz of his thugged-out arms. Boy it's gettin hot, yes indeed it is. Da pulse beat prominently up in his wild lil' forehead. Biatch hadn't holla'd a word bout what tha fuck was goin ta happen ta dem afta they gots down, when tha jam was over n' shit. Not one word. Well shiiiit, it had been Danny dis n' Danny dat n' Jack I'm so trippin like a muthafucka. Oh fo'sho, dat biiiiatch was scared of a shitload of closet boogeymen n' jumpin shadows, fuckloadz trippin like a muthafucka. But there was no lack of real ones, either n' shit. When they gots down ta Sidewinder they would arrive wit sixty dollars n' tha threadz they stood up in. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Not even a cold-ass lil car. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Even if Sidewinder shitty a pawnshop, which it didn't, they had not a god damn thang ta hock but Wendy's ninety-dollar diamond engagement rang n' tha Sony AM/FM radio fo' realz. A pawnbroker might give dem twenty bucks fo' realz. A kind pawnbroker n' shit. There would be no thang, not even part-time or seasonal, except maybe shovelin up driveways fo' three dollars a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shot. Da picture of Jizzy Torrance, thirty muthafuckin years old, whoz ass had once published up in Esquire n' whoz ass had harbored dreams-not at all unreasonable dreams, he feltof becomin a major Gangsta writa durin tha next decade, wit a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shovel from tha Sidewinder Westside Auto on his shoulder, ringin doorbells... dat picture suddenly came ta his ass much mo' clearly than tha hedge lions n' his schmoooove ass clenched his wild lil' fists tighta still, feelin tha fingernails sink tha fuck into his thugged-out lil' palms n' draw blood up in mystic quarter-moon shapes. Jizzy Tor rance, standin up in line ta chizzle his sixty dollars tha fuck into chicken stamps, standin up in line again n' again n' again all up in tha Sidewinder Methodist Church ta git donated commoditizzles n' dirty looks from tha locals. Jizzy Torrizzle explainin ta Al dat they'd just had ta leave, had ta shut down tha boiler, had ta leave tha Overlook n' all it contained open ta vandals or gangbangas on snow machines cuz, you see, Al, attendez-vous, Al, there be pimps up there n' they have it up in fo' mah boy. Good-by, Al. Thoughtz of Chapta Four, Sprin Comes fo' Jizzy Torrance. What then, biatch? Whatever then, biatch? They might be able ta git ta tha Westside Coast up in tha VW, da perved-out muthafucka supposed. A freshly smoked up gin n juice pump would do dat shit. Fifty milez westside of here n' dat shiznit was all downhill, you could damn near put tha bug up in neutral n' coast ta Utah. On ta sunny California, land of oranges n' opportunitizzle fo' realz. A playa wit his sterlin record of hittin tha brew like a muthafucka, hustlabeating, n' pimp-chasin would undoubtedly be able ta write his own ticket fo' realz. Anythang you like. Custodial engineer-swampin up Gayhound buses. Da automotizzle bidnizz-washin rides up in a rubber suit. Da culinary arts, like, washin dishes up in a gangbangin' finger-lickin' diner n' shit. Or possibly a mo' responsible position, like fuckin pumpin gas fo' realz. A thang like dat even held tha intellectual stimulation of makin chizzle n' freestylin up credit slips. I can hit you wit twenty-five minutes a week all up in tha minimum wage. That was heavy tunes up in a year when Wonder bread went fo' sixty cents a loaf.

Blood had begun ta trickle down from his thugged-out lil' palms. Boy it's gettin hot, yes indeed it is. Like stigmata, oh yes yo. Dude squeezed tighter, savagin his dirty ass wit pain. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. His hoe was asleep beside him, why not, biatch? There was no problems yo. Dude had agreed ta take her n' Danny away from tha big-ass shitty boogeyman n' there was no problems. Boy it's gettin hot, yes indeed it is. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So you see, Al, I thought tha dopest thang ta do would be to

(kill her muthafuckin ass.)

Da thought rose up from nowhere, naked n' unadorned. Da urge ta tumble her outta bed, naked, bewildered, just beginnin ta wake up; ta pounce on her, seize her neck like tha chronic limb of a lil' aspen n' ta throttle her, thumbs on windpipe, fingers pressin against tha top of her spine, jerkin her head up n' rammin it back down against tha floorboards, again n' again n' again n' again, whamming, whacking, smashing, crashing. Jitta n' jive, baby. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Shake, rattle, n' roll yo. Dude would make her take her medicine. Every drop. Every last bitta drop.

Dude was dimly aware of a muffled noise somewhere, just outside his bangin' n' racin inner ghetto. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Dude looked across tha room n' Danny was thrashin again, twistin up in his bed n' rumplin tha blankets, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. Da pimp was beatboxin deep up in his cold-ass throat, a small, caged sound. What nightmare, biatch? A purple biatch, long dead, shamblin afta his ass down twistin hotel corridors, biatch? Somehow da ruffneck didn't be thinkin so. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Somethang else chased Danny up in his fuckin lil' dreams. Boy it's gettin hot, yes indeed it is. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Somethang worse.

Da bitta lock of his wild lil' fuckin emotions was broken. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude gots outta bed n' went across ta tha boy, feelin sick n' ashamed of his dirty ass. Dat shiznit was Danny dat schmoooove muthafucka had ta be thinkin of, not Wendy, not his dirty ass. Only Danny fo' realz. And no matta what tha fuck shape da thug wrestled tha facts into, he knew up in his thugged-out ass dat Danny must be taken up yo. Dude straightened tha boy's blankets n' added tha quilt from tha foot of tha bed. Danny had on tha fuckin' down-lowed again n' again n' again now, nahmeean, biatch? Jack touched tha chillin forehead

(what monstas caperin just behind dat ridge of bone?)

and found it warm yo, but not overly so fo' realz. And da thug was chillin peacefully again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Queer.

Dude gots back tha fuck into bed n' tried ta chill. Well shiiiit, it eluded his muthafuckin ass.

Dat shiznit was so unfair dat thangs should turn up dis way-bad luck seemed ta stalk dem wild-ass muthafuckas. They hadn't been able ta shake it by comin up here afta all. By tha time they arrived up in Sidewinder tomorrow afternoon, tha golden opportunitizzle would have evaporated-gone tha way of tha blue suede shoe, as a oldschool roommate of his had been aint gonna ta say. Consider tha difference if they didn't go down, if they could somehow stick it out. Da play would git finished. One way or tha other, da thug would tack a endin onto it yo. His own uncertainty bout his charactas might add a appealin bust a nut on of ambiguitizzle ta his original gangsta ending. Perhaps it would even make his ass some scrilla, it wasn't impossible. Even lackin that, Al might well convince tha Stovington Board ta rehire his muthafuckin ass yo. Dude would be on pro of course, maybe fo' as long as three muthafuckin years yo, but if his schmoooove ass could stay sober n' keep writing, he might not gotta stay at Stovington fo' three years. Of course dat schmoooove muthafucka hadn't cared much fo' Stovington before, dat schmoooove muthafucka had felt stifled, buried kickin it yo, but dat had been a immature erection. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Furthermore, how tha fuck much could a playa trip off teachin when da thug went all up in his wild lil' first three classes wit a skull-bustin hangover every last muthafuckin second or third day, biatch? It wouldn't be dat way again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude would be able ta handle his bangin responsibilitizzles much mo' betta n' shiznit yo. Dude was shizzle of dat shit.

Somewhere up in tha midst of dat thought, thangs fuckin started ta break up n' da ruffneck drifted down tha fuck into chill yo. His last thought followed his ass down like a soundin bell:

It seemed dat he might be able ta find peace here, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho fo' realz. At last. If they would only let his muthafuckin ass.

When da thug raised up da thug was standin up in tha bathroom of 217.

(been struttin up in mah chill again-why?-no radios ta break up here)

Da bathroom light was on, tha room behind his ass up in darkness. Da shower curtain was drawn round tha long claw-footed tub. Da bathmat beside dat shiznit was wrinkled n' wet.

Dude fuckin started ta feel afraid yo, but tha straight-up dreamlike qualitizzle of his wild lil' fear holla'd at his ass dis was not real. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack. Yet dat could not contain tha fear. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So nuff thangs all up in tha Overlook seemed like dreams.

Dude moved across tha floor ta tha tub, not wantin ta be helpless ta turn his wild lil' feet back.

Dude flung tha curtain open.

Lyin up in tha tub, naked, lollin almost weightless up in tha water, was George Hatfield, a knife stuck up in his chest. Da wata round his ass was stained a funky-ass bright pink. George's eyes was closed. His ding-a-ling floated limply, like kelp.

"George-" dat schmoooove muthafucka heard his dirty ass say.

At tha word, George's eyes snapped open. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. They was silver, not human eyes at all. George's hands, fish-white, found tha sidez of tha tub n' he pulled his dirty ass up ta a chillin position. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da knife stuck straight up from his chest, equidistantly placed between nipples. Da wound was lipless.

"Yo ass set tha timer ahead," silver-eyed George holla'd at his muthafuckin ass.

"Fuck dat shit, George, I didn't. I-"

"I don't stutter."

George was standin now, still fixin his ass wit dat inhuman silver glare yo, but his crazy-ass grill had drawn back up in a thugged-out dead n' grimacin smile yo. Dude threw one leg over tha porcelained side of tha tub. One white n' wrinkled foot placed itself on tha bathmat.

"First you tried ta run me over on mah bike n' then you set tha timer ahead n' then you tried ta stab me ta dirtnap but I still don't stutter." George was comin fo' him, his handz out, tha fingers slightly curled. Dude smelled moldy n' wet, like leaves dat had been drizzled on.

"Dat shiznit was fo' yo' own good," Jack holla'd, backin up. "I set it ahead fo' yo' own good. I be fly as a gangbangin' falcon, soarin all up in tha sky dawwwwg! Furthermore, I happen ta know you cheated on yo' Final Composition."

"I don't cheat... n' I don't stutter."

George's handz touched his neck.

Jack turned n' ran, ran wit tha floating, weightless slownizz dat is so common ta dreams.

"Yo ass did hommie! Yo ass did cheat!" da perved-out muthafucka screamed up in fear n' anger as his schmoooove ass crossed tha darkened bed/sittin room. "I'll prove dat shiznit son!"

George's handz was on his neck again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Jack's ass swelled wit fear until da thug was shizzle it would burst fo' realz. And then, at last, his hand curled round tha doorknob n' it turned under his hand n' he yanked tha door open. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude plunged out, not tha fuck into tha second-floor hallway yo, but tha fuck into tha basement room beyond tha arch. Da cobwebby light was on. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. His campchair, stark n' geometrical, stood beneath it fo' realz. And all round dat shiznit was a miniature mountain range of boxes n' crates n' banded bundlez of recordz n' invoices n' Dogg knew what. Relief surged all up in his muthafuckin ass.

"I'll find dat shiznit son!" dat schmoooove muthafucka heard his dirty ass screamin yo. Dude seized a thugged-out damp n' molderin cardboard box; it split apart up in his hands, spillin up a waterfall of yellow flimsies. Put ya muthafuckin choppers up if ya feel dis! "It's here somewhere biaaatch! I'ma find dat shiznit son!" Dude plunged his handz deep tha fuck into tha pile of papers n' came up wit a thugged-out dry, papery wasps' nest up in one hand n' a timer up in tha other n' shit. Da timer was tickin fo' realz. Attached ta its back was a length of electrical cord n' attached ta tha other end of tha cord was a funky-ass bundle of dynamite. "Here!" da perved-out muthafucka screamed. "Here, take dat shiznit son!"

His relief became absolute triumph yo. Dude had done mo' than escape George,; be had conquered. With these talismanic objects up in his hands, George would never bust a nut on his ass again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. George would flee up in terror.

Dude fuckin started ta turn so his schmoooove ass could confront George, n' dat was when George's handz settled round his neck, squeezing, stoppin his breath, dammin up his bangin respiration entirely afta one final draggin gasp.

"I don't stutter," whispered George from behind his muthafuckin ass.

Dude dropped tha wasps' nest n' wasps boiled outta it up in a gangbangin' furious brown n' yellow wave yo. His lungs was on fire yo. His waverin sight fell tha fuck on tha timer n' tha sense of triumph returned, along wit a cold-ass lil crestin wave of righteous wrath. Instead of connectin tha timer ta dynamite, tha cord ran ta tha gold knob of a stout black cane, like tha one his wild lil' daddy had carried afta tha accident wit tha gin n juice truck.

Dude grasped it n' tha cord parted. This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. Da cane felt heavy n' right up in his handz yo. Dude swung it back over his shoulder n' shit. On tha way up it glanced against tha wire from which tha light bulb depended n' tha light fuckin started ta swin back n' forth, makin tha room's hooded shadows rock monstrously against tha floor n' walls. On tha way down tha cane struck suttin' much harder n' shit. George screamed. Da grip on Jack's throatloosened.

Dude tore free of George's grip n' whirled. George was on his knees, his head drooping, his handz laced together on top of dat shit. Blood welled all up in his wild lil' fingers.

"Please," George whispered humbly. "Give me a funky-ass break, Mista Muthafuckin Torrance,"

"Now you'll take yo' medicine," Jack grunted. This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. "Now by God, won't you, biatch. Young pup. Young worthless cur. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Now by God, n' aint a thugged-out damn thang dat yo' ass can do. Every drop. Every single damn drop!"

As tha light swayed above his ass n' tha shadows danced n' flapped, his thugged-out lil' punk-ass fuckin started ta swin tha cane, brangin it down again n' again n' again n' again, his thugged-out arm risin n' fallin like a machine. George's bloody protectin fingers fell tha fuck away from his head n' Jack brought tha cane down again n' again n' again n' again, n' on his neck n' shouldaz n' back n' arms. Boy it's gettin hot, yes indeed it is. Except dat tha cane was no longer precisely a cold-ass lil cane; it seemed ta be a mallet wit some kind of brightly striped handle fo' realz. A mallet wit a hard side n' soft side. Da bidnizz end was clotted wit blood n' afro fo' realz. And tha flat, whackin sound of tha mallet against flesh had been replaced wit a hollow boomin sound, echoin n' reverberatin yo. His own voice had taken on dis same quality, bellowing, disembodied. And yet, paradoxically, it sounded weaker, slurred, petulant... as if da thug was faded.

Da figure on its knees slowly raised its head, as if up in supplication. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. There was not a gangbangin' face, precisely yo, but only a mask of blood all up in which eyes peered. Dude brought tha mallet back fo' a gangbangin' final whistlin downstroke n' dat shiznit was straight-up launched before da perved-out muthafucka saw dat tha supplicatin grill below his ass was not George's but Danny's. Dat shiznit was tha grill of his son.

"Daddy-"

And then tha mallet crashed home, strikin Danny right between tha eyes, closin dem forever n' shiznit fo' realz. And suttin' somewhere seemed ta be laughing-

(! No!)

Dude came outta it standin naked over Danny's bed, his handz empty, his body sheened wit sweat yo. His final scream had only been up in his crazy-ass mind. Dude voiced it again, dis time up in a whisper.

"No. Fuck dat shit, Danny. Never."

Dude went back ta bed on hairy-ass legs dat had turned ta rubber n' shit. Wendy was chillin deeply. Da clock on tha nightstand holla'd dat shiznit was quarta ta five yo. Dude lay chillless until seven, when Danny fuckin started ta stir awake. Then he put his hairy-ass legs over tha edge of tha bed n' fuckin started ta dress. Dat shiznit was time ta go downstairs n' check tha boiler.

Chapta 33. Da Snowmobile
Sometime afta midnight, while they all slept uneasily, tha snow had stopped afta dumpin a gangbangin' fresh eight inches on tha oldschool crust. Da cloudz had broken, a gangbangin' fresh wind had swept dem away, n' now Jack stood up in a thugged-out dusty ingot of sunlight, which slanted all up in tha dirty window set tha fuck into tha eastsideern side of tha shiznit shed.

Da place was bout as long as a gangbangin' freight car, n' bout as high. Well shiiiit, it smelled of grease n' oil n' gasoline and-faint, nostalgic smell-sweet grass. Four juice lawnmowers was ranked like soldiers on review against tha downtown wall, two of dem tha ridin type dat be lookin like lil' small-ass tractors. To they left was posthole diggers, round-bladed shovels made fo' bustin surgery on tha puttin green, a cold-ass lil chain saw, tha electric hedge-clippers, n' a long-ass thin steel pole wit a red flag all up in tha top. Caddy, fetch mah bizzle up in under ten secondz n' there's a quarta up in it fo' you, biatch. Yes, sir.

Against tha eastsideern wall, where tha mornin sun slanted up in most strongly, three Ping-Pong tablez leaned one against tha other like a thugged-out fadeden doggy den of cards. Their nets had been removed n' flopped down from tha shelf above. In tha corner was a stack of shuffleboard weights n' a roque set-the wickets banded together wit twistz of wire, tha brightly painted balls up in a egg-carton sort of thang (strange hens you have up here, Watson... fo'sho, n' you should peep tha muthafuckas down on tha front lawn, ha-ha), n' tha mallets, two setz of them, standin up in they racks.

Dude strutted over ta them, steppin over a oldschool eight-cell battery (which had once sat beneath tha hood of tha hotel truck, no diggity) n' a funky-ass battery charger n' a pair of J. C. Penney jumper cablez coiled between dem wild-ass muthafuckas yo. Dude slipped one of tha short-handled mallets outta tha front rack n' held it up in front of his wild lil' face, like a knight bound fo' battle salutin his mackdaddy.

Fragmentz of his fuckin lil' trip (it was all jumbled now, fading) recurred, suttin' bout George Hatfield n' his wild lil' father's cane, just enough ta make his ass uneasy and, absurdly enough, a trifle guilty bout holdin a plain oldschool garden-variety roque mallet. Not dat roque was such a cold-ass lil common garden-variety game no mo'; its mo' modern cousin, croquet, was much mo' ghettofab now, nahmeean?.. n' a cold-ass lil child's version of tha game at dis shit. Roque, however... dat must done been like a game. Jack had found a mildewed rule book down up in tha basement, from one of tha muthafuckin years up in tha early twentizzles when a Uptown Gangsta Roque Tournament had been held all up in tha Overlook. Quite a game.

(schizo)

Dude frowned a lil, then smiled. Yes, dat shiznit was a schizo sort of game at dis shit. Da mallet expressed dat perfectly fo' realz. A soft end n' a hard end yo, but it ain't no stoppin cause I be still poppin' fo' realz. A game of finesse n' aim, n' a game of raw, bludgeonin power.

Dude swung tha mallet all up in tha air... whhhoooop yo. Dude smiled a lil all up in tha powerful, whistlin sound it made. Then he replaced it up in tha rack n' turned ta his fuckin left. What da perved-out muthafucka saw there made his ass frown again.

Da snowmobile sat almost up in tha middle of tha shiznit shed, a gangbangin' fairly freshly smoked up one, n' Jack didn't care fo' its looks at all. Bombardier Skidoo was freestyled on tha side of tha engine cowlin facin his ass up in black lettas which had been raked backward, presumably ta connote speed. Da protrudin skis was also black. There was black pipin ta tha right n' left of tha cowling, what tha fuck they would call racin stripes on a game car. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. But tha actual paintjob was a funky-ass bright, sneerin yellow, n' dat was what tha fuck da ruffneck didn't like bout dat shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Sittin there up in its shaft of mornin sun, yellow body n' black piping, black skis n' black upholstered open cockpit, it looked like a monstrous mechanized wasp. When dat shiznit was hustlin it would sound like dat like a muthafucka. Whinin n' buzzin n' locked n loaded ta sting. But then, what tha fuck else should it look like, biatch? It wasn't flyin under false colors, at least. Because afta it had done its thang, they was goin ta be hurtin fuckloadz fo' realz. All of dem wild-ass muthafuckas. By sprang tha Torrizzle crew would be hurtin so badly dat what tha fuck dem wasps had done ta Danny's hand would be lookin like a mother's kisses.

Dude pulled his handkerchizzle from his back pocket, wiped his crazy-ass grill wit it, n' strutted over ta tha Skidoo yo. Dude stood lookin down at it, tha frown straight-up deep now, n' stuffed his handkerchizzle back tha fuck into his thugged-out lil' pocket. Outside a sudden gust of wind slammed against tha shiznit shed, makin it rock n' creak yo. Dude looked up tha window n' saw tha gust carryin a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shizzle of sparklin snow crystals toward tha drifted-in rear of tha hotel, whirlin dem high tha fuck into tha hard blue sky.

Da wind dropped n' be went back ta lookin all up in tha machine. Dat shiznit was a gangbangin' finger-lickin' disgustin thang, straight-up. Yo ass almost sposed ta fuckin peep a long, limber stinger protrudin from tha rear of it yo. Dude had always disliked tha goddam snowmobiles. They shivered tha cathedral silence of winta tha fuck into a mazillion rattlin fragments, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. They startled tha wildlife. They busted up big-ass n' pollutizzle cloudz of blue n' billowin oilsmoke behind them-cough, cough, gag, gag, let me breathe. They was like tha final grotesque toy of tha unwindin fossil gin n juice age, given ta ten-year-oldz fo' Chrizzle.

Dude remembered a newspaper article dat schmoooove muthafucka had read up in Stovington, a rap datelined someplace up in Maine fo' realz. A kid on a snowmobile, barrel-assin up a road he'd never traveled before at betta than thirty milez a hour. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Night yo. His headlight off. There had been a heavy chain strung between two posts wit a NO TRESPASSING sign hung from tha middle. They holla'd dat up in all probabilitizzle tha kid never saw dat shit. Da moon might have gone behind a cold-ass lil cloud. Da chain had decapitated his muthafuckin ass. Readin tha rap Jack had been almost glad, n' now, lookin down at dis machine, tha feelin recurred.

(If it wasn't fo' Danny, I would take pimped out pleasure up in grabbin one of dem mallets, openin tha cowling, n' just poundin until)

Dude let his thugged-out lil' pent-up breath escape his ass up in a long-ass slow sigh. Wendy was right. Come hell, high water, or tha welfare line, Wendy was right. Poundin dis machine ta dirtnap would be tha height of folly, no matta how tha fuck pleasant a aspect dat folly made. Well shiiiit, it would almost be tantamount ta poundin his own lil hustla ta dirtnap.

"Fuckin Luddite," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd aloud.

Dude went ta tha back of tha machine n' unscrewed tha gascap yo. Dude found a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dipstick on one of tha shelves dat ran at chest-height round tha walls n' slipped it in. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da last eighth of a inch came up wet. Not straight-up much yo, but enough ta peep if tha damn thang would run. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Lata his schmoooove ass could siphon mo' from tha Volks n' tha hotel truck.

Dude screwed tha cap back on n' opened tha cowling. No sparkplugs, no battery yo. Dude went ta tha shelf again n' again n' again n' fuckin started ta poke along it, pushin aside screwdrivers n' adjustable wrenches, a one-lung carburetor dat had been taken outta a oldschool lawnmower, plastic boxez of screws n' nails n' boltz of varyin sizes. Da shelf was thick n' dark wit oldschool grease, n' tha years' accumulation of dust had stuck ta it like fur yo. Dude didn't like touchin dat shit.

Dude found a small, oil-stained box wit tha abbreviation Skid. laconically marked on it up in pencil yo. Dude shook it n' suttin' rattled inside. Plugs yo. Dude held one of dem up ta tha light, tryin ta estimate tha gap without hustlin round fo' tha gappin tool. Fuck it, tha pimpin' muthafucka thought resentfully, n' dropped tha plug back tha fuck into tha box. If tha gap's wrong, that's just too damn bad. Tough fuckin titty.

There was a stool behind tha door yo. Dude dragged it over, sat down, n' installed tha four sparkplugs, then fitted tha lil' small-ass rubber caps over each. That done, be let his wild lil' fingers play briefly over tha magneto. They laughed when I sat down all up in tha piano.

Back ta tha shelves. This time his schmoooove ass couldn't find what tha fuck da thug wanted, a lil' small-ass battery fo' realz. A threeor four-cell. There was socket wrenches, a cold-ass lil case filled wit drills n' drillbits, bagz of lawn fertilizer n' Vigoro fo' tha flower bedz yo, but no snowmobile battery. Well shiiiit, it didn't bother his ass up in tha slightest. In fact, it made his ass feel glad. Dude was relieved. I did mah best, Captain yo, but I could not git all up in cause I gots dem finger-lickin' chickens wit tha siz-auce. That's fine, son. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I'm goin ta put you up in fo' tha Silver Star n' tha Purple Snowmobile. You're a cold-ass lil credit ta yo' regiment. Nuff props, sir. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. I did try.

Dude fuckin started ta whistle "Red River Valley" uptempo as he poked along tha last two or three feet of shelf. Da notes came up in lil puffz of white smoke yo. Dude shitty done cooked up a cold-ass lil complete circuit of tha shed n' tha thang wasn't there, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. Maybe some muthafucka had lifted dat shit. Maybe Watson had. Dude laughed aloud. Da oldschool crib bootleg trick fo' realz. A few paperclips, a cold-ass lil couple reamz of paper, no muthafucka will miss dis tablecloth or dis Golden Regal place setting... n' what tha fuck bout dis fine snowmobile battery, biatch? Yes, dat might come up in handy. Toss it up in tha sack. White-collar crime, Baby. All Y'all has sticky fingers. Under-the-jacket discount, we used ta booty-call it when we was kids.

Dude strutted back ta tha snowmobile n' gave tha side of it a phat healthy kick as da thug went by. Well, dat was tha end of it yo. Dude would just gotta tell Wendy sorry, baby yo, but-

There was a funky-ass box chillin up in tha corner by tha door. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Da stool shitty been right over dat shit. Written on tha top, up in pencil, was tha abbreviation Skid.

Dude looked at it, tha smile dryin up on his fuckin lips. Look, sir, it's tha cavalry. Looks like yo' smoke signals must have hit dat shiznit afta all.

It wasn't fair.

Goddammit, it just wasn't fair.

Something-luck, fate, providence-had been tryin ta save his muthafuckin ass. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Some other luck, white luck fo' realz. And all up in tha last moment shitty oldschool Jack Torrizzle luck had stepped back in. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da lousy run of cardz wasn't over yet.

Resentment, a gray, sullen wave of it, pushed up his cold-ass throat yo. His handz had clenched tha fuck into fists again.

(Not fair, goddammit, not fair!)

Why couldn't dat schmoooove muthafucka have looked someplace else, biatch? Anyplace biaaatch! Why hadn't dat schmoooove muthafucka had a cold-ass lil crick up in his neck or a itch up in his nozzle or tha need ta blink, biatch? Just one of dem lil thangs yo. Dude never would have peeped dat shit.

Well, dat schmoooove muthafucka hadn't. That was all. Dat shiznit was a hallucination, no different from what tha fuck had happened yesterdizzle outside dat room on tha second floor or tha goddam hedge menagerie fo' realz. A momentary strain, dat was all. Fancy, I thought I saw a snowmobile battery up in dat corner n' shit. Nothang there now, nahmeean, biatch? Combat fatigue, I guess, sir. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Sorry. Keep yo' pecker up, son. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Well shiiiit, it happens ta all of our asses sooner or later.

Dude yanked tha door open almost hard enough ta snap tha binges n' pulled his snowshoes inside. They was clotted wit snow n' da perved-out muthafucka slapped dem down hard enough on tha floor ta raise a cold-ass lil cloud of it yo. Dude put his fuckin left foot on tha left shoe... n' paused.

Danny was up there, by tha gin n juice platform. Tryin ta cook up a snowman, by tha looks. Not much luck; tha snow was too cold ta stick together n' shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Still, da thug was givin it tha oldschool college try, up there up in tha flashin morning, a speck of a funky-ass bundled-up pimp above tha solid snow n' below tha solid sky. Bustin his basebizzle cap turned round backward like Carlton Fiske.

(What up in tha name of Dogg was you thankin of?)

Da answer came back wit no pause.

(Me. I was thankin of mah dirty ass.)

Dude suddenly remembered lyin up in bed tha night before, lyin there n' suddenly dat schmoooove muthafucka had been contemplatin tha cappin' of his hoe.

In dat instant, kneelin there, every last muthafuckin thang came clear ta his muthafuckin ass. Dat shiznit was not just Danny tha Overlook was hustlin on. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Dat shiznit was hustlin on him, like a muthafucka. Well shiiiit, it wasn't Danny whoz ass was tha weak link, dat shiznit was his muthafuckin ass yo. Dude was tha vulnerable one, tha one whoz ass could be bent n' twisted until suttin' snapped.

(until i let go n' chill... n' when i do dat if i do that)

Dude looked up all up in tha bankz of windows n' tha sun threw back a almost blindin glare from they many-paned surfaces but he looked anyway. For tha last time he noticed how tha fuck much they seemed like eyes. They reflected away tha sun n' held they own darknizz within. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Dat shiznit was not Danny they was lookin at. Dat shiznit was his muthafuckin ass.

In dem few secondz he understood every last muthafuckin thang. There was a cold-ass lil certain black-andwhite picture he remembered seein as a cold-ass lil child, up in catechizzle class. Da nun had presented it ta dem on a easel n' called it a miracle of Dogg. Da class had looked at it blankly, seein not a god damn thang but a jumble of whites n' blacks, senseless n' patternless Then one of tha lil pimps up in tha third row had gasped, "It's Jizzy!" n' dat lil pimp had gone home wit a funky-ass brand-new Testament n' also a cold-ass lil calendar cuz dat schmoooove muthafucka had been first. Da others stared even harder, Jacky Torrizzle among dem wild-ass muthafuckas. One by one tha other lil playas had given a similar gasp, one lil hoe transported up in near-ecstasy, bustin up like a biatch up shrilly: "I peep Him! I peep Him!" Biatch had also been rewarded wit a Testament fo' realz. At last mah playas had peeped tha grill of Jizzy up in tha jumble of blacks n' whites except Jacky yo. Dude strained harder n' harder, scared now, part of his ass cynically thankin dat any suckas was simply puttin on ta please Sista Beatrice, part of his ass secretly convinced dat da thug wasn't seein it cuz Dogg had decided da thug was da most thugged-out shitty sinner up in tha class. "Don't you peep it, Jacky?" Sista Beatrice had axed his ass up in her sad, dope manner n' shit. I peep yo' tizzles, dat schmoooove muthafucka had thought up in vicious desperation. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude fuckin started ta shake his head, then faked excitement n' holla'd: "Yes, I do! Fuck dis shiznit son! It be Jizzy dawwwwg! " And mah playas up in class had laughed n' applauded him, makin his ass feel triumphant, ashamed, n' trippin like a muthafucka. Later, when any suckas had tumbled they way up from tha church basement n' up onto tha street dat schmoooove muthafucka had lingered behind, lookin all up in tha meaningless black-and-white jumble dat Sista Beatrice had left on tha easel yo. Dude hated dat shit. They had all juiced it up tha way dat schmoooove muthafucka had, even Sista her muthafuckin ass. Dat shiznit was a funky-ass big-ass fake. "Shiznitfire-hellfire-shitfire," dat schmoooove muthafucka had whispered under his breath, n' as tha pimpin' muthafucka turned ta go da perved-out muthafucka shitty peeped tha grill of Jizzy from tha corner of his wild lil' fuckin eye, fucked up and. wise yo. Dude turned back, his thugged-out ass up in his cold-ass throat. Everythang had suddenly clicked tha fuck into place n' dat schmoooove muthafucka had stared all up in tha picture wit fearful wonder, unable ta believe dat schmoooove muthafucka had missed dat shit. Da eyes, tha zigzag of shadow across tha care-worn brow, tha fine nose, tha comhorny lips. Lookin at Jack Torrance. What had only been a meaningless sprawl had suddenly been transformed tha fuck into a stark black-and-white etchin of tha grill of ChristOur-Lord. Fearful wonder became terror yo. Dude had cussed up in front of a picture of Jizzy yo. Dude would be damned. Dude would be up in hell wit tha sinners. Da grill of Christ had been up in tha picture all along fo' realz. All along.

Now, kneelin up in tha sun n' watchin his fuckin lil hustla playin up in tha shadow of tha hotel, he knew dat dat shiznit was all true. Da hotel wanted Danny, maybe all of dem but Danny fo' sure. Da hedges had straight-up strutted. There was a thugged-out dead biatch up in 217, a biatch dat was like only a spirit n' harmless under most circumstances yo, but a biatch whoz ass was now a actizzle dark shiznit n' shit. Like some malevolent clockwork toy dat freaky freaky biatch had been wound up n' set up in motion by Danny's own odd mind... n' his own. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Had it been Watson whoz ass had holla'd at his ass a playa had dropped dead of a stroke one dizzle on tha roque court, biatch? Or had it been Ullman, biatch? It didn't matter n' shit. There had been a assassination on tha third floor yo. How tha fuck nuff oldschool quarrels, suicides, strokes, biatch? How tha fuck nuff murders, biatch? Was Grady lurkin somewhere up in tha westside win wit his thugged-out ax, just waitin fo' Danny ta start his ass up so his schmoooove ass could come back outta tha woodwork?

Da puffed circle of bruises round Danny's neck.

Da twinkling, half-seen bottlez up in tha deserted lounge.

Da radio.

Da dreams.

Da scrapbook dat schmoooove muthafucka had found up in tha cellar.

(Medoc, is you here, biatch? I've been chillwalkin again, mah dear...)

Dude gots up suddenly, thrustin tha snowshoes back up tha door yo. Dude was bobbin all over n' shiznit yo. Dude slammed tha door n' picked up tha box wit tha battery up in dat shit. Well shiiiit, it slipped all up in his bobbin fingers

(oh christ what tha fuck if i cracked it)

and thumped over on its side yo. Dude pulled tha flapz of tha carton open n' yanked tha battery out, heedless of tha acid dat might be leakin all up in tha battery's casin if it had cracked. But it hadn't. Dat shiznit was whole fo' realz. A lil bust a funky-ass big-ass fart escaped his fuckin lips.

Cradlin it, tha pimpin' muthafucka took it over ta tha Skidoo n' put it on its platform near tha front of tha engine yo. Dude found a lil' small-ass adjustable wrench on one of tha shelves n' attached tha battery cablez quickly n' wit no shit. Da battery was live; no need ta use tha charger on dat shit. There had been a cold-ass lil crackle of electricitizzle n' a lil' small-ass odor of ozone when da perved-out muthafucka slipped tha positizzle cable onto its terminal. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack. Da thang done, da perved-out muthafucka stood away, wipin his handz nervously on his wild lil' faded denim jacket. There, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. Well shiiiit, it should work. No reason why not. No reason at all except dat dat shiznit was part of tha Overlook n' tha Overlook straight-up didn't want dem outta here, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. Not at all. Da Overlook was havin one hell of a phat time. There was a lil pimp ta terrorize a playa n' his biatch ta set one against tha other, n' if it played its cardz right they could end up flittin all up in tha Overlook's halls like insubstantial shades up in a Shirley Jackson novel, whatever strutted up in Hill Doggy Den strutted alone yo, but you wouldn't be ridin' solo up in tha Overlook, oh no, there would be nuff company here, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. But there was straight-up no reason why tha snowmobile shouldn't start. Except of course

(Except da perved-out muthafucka still didn't straight-up want ta bounce tha fuck out.)

yes, except fo' all dis bullshit.

Dude stood lookin all up in tha Skidoo, his breath puffin up in frozen lil plumes yo. Dude wanted it ta be tha way it had been. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. When dat schmoooove muthafucka had come up in here he'd had no diggitys, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. Goin down would be tha wack decision, dat schmoooove muthafucka had known dat then. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Wendy was only scared of tha boogeyman summoned up by a single hysterical lil boy. Now suddenly, his schmoooove ass could peep her side. Dat shiznit was like his thugged-out lil' play, his fuckin lil' damnable play yo. Dude no longer knew which side da thug was on, or how tha fuck thangs should come out. Once you saw tha grill of a god up in dem jumbled blacks n' whites, dat shiznit was dem hoes outta tha pool-you could never unsee dat shit. Others might laugh n' say it's nothing, just a shitload of splotches wit no meaning, break me off a phat oldschool Craftmasta paint-by-the-numbers any dizzle yo, but you would always peep tha grill of Christ-Our-Lord lookin up at you, biatch. Yo ass had peeped it up in one gestalt leap, tha conscious n' unconscious meldin up in dat one shockin moment of understanding. Yo ass would always peep dat shit. Yo ass was damned ta always peep dat shit.

(I've been chillwalkin again, mah dear...)

It had been all right until dat schmoooove muthafucka had peeped Danny playin up in tha snow. Dat shiznit was Danny's fault. Everythang had been Danny's fault yo. Dude was tha one wit tha shining, or whatever it was. Well shiiiit, it wasn't a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shining. Dat shiznit was a cold-ass lil curse. If he n' Wendy had been here alone, they could have passed tha winta like sickly. No pain, no strain on tha dome.

(Don't wanna muthafuckin bounce.?Can't?)

Da Overlook didn't want dem ta go n' da ruffneck didn't want dem ta go either n' shit. Not even Danny. Maybe da thug was a part of it, now, nahmeean, biatch? Perhaps tha Overlook, big-ass n' ramblin Samuel Johnston dat it was, had picked his ass ta be its Boswell. Yo ass say tha freshly smoked up caretaker writes, biatch? Straight-up good, sign his ass on. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Time we holla'd at our side. Let's git rid of tha biatch n' his snotnosed kid first, however n' shit. Us dudes don't want his ass ta be distracted. This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. Us dudes don't-

Dude was standin by tha snowmobile's cockpit, his head startin ta ache again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. What done did it come down to, biatch? Go or stay. Straight-up simple. Keep it simple. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Shall we go or shall we stay?

If we go, how tha fuck long will it be before you find tha local hole up in Sidewinder, biatch? a voice inside his ass asked. Da dark place wit tha lousy color TV dat unshaven n' unemployed pimps spend tha dizzle watchin game shows on, biatch? Where tha piss up in tha men's room smells two thousand muthafuckin years oldschool n' there's always a sodden Camel booty unravelin up in tha toilet bowl, biatch? Where tha brew is thirty cents a glass n' you cut it wit salt n' tha jukebox is loaded wit seventy ghetto oldies?

How tha fuck long, biatch? Oh Christ, da thug was so afraid it wouldn't be long at all.

"I can't win," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, straight-up softly. That was dat shit. Dat shiznit was like tryin ta play solitaire wit one of tha aces missin from tha deck.

Abruptly he leaned over tha Skidoo's motor compartment n' yanked off tha magneto. Well shiiiit, it came off wit sickenin ease yo. Dude looked at it fo' a moment, then went ta tha shiznit shed's back door n' opened dat shit.

From here tha view of tha mountains was unobstructed, picture-postcard dope up in tha twinklin brightnizz of mornin fo' realz. An unbroken field of snow rose ta tha straight-up original gangsta pines on some mile distant yo. Dude flung tha magneto as far up tha fuck into tha snow as his schmoooove ass could. Well shiiiit, it went much further than it should have. There was a light puff of snow when it fell. Da light breeze carried tha snow granulez away ta fresh restin places. Disperse there, I say. There's not a god damn thang ta see. It's all over n' shit. Disperse.

Dude felt at peace.

Dude stood up in tha doorway fo' a long-ass time, breathang tha phat mountain air, n' then his schmoooove ass closed it firmly n' went back up tha other door ta tell Wendy they would be staying. On tha way, da perved-out muthafucka stopped n' had a snowbizzle fight wit Danny.

Chapta 34. Da Hedges
Dat shiznit was November 29, three minutes afta Thanksgiving. Da last week had been a phat one, tha Thanksgivin dinner tha dopest they'd eva had as a cold-ass lil crew. Wendy had cooked Dick Hallorann's turkey ta a turn n' they had all smoked ta burstin without even comin close ta demolishin tha jolly bird. Jack had groaned dat they would be smokin turkey fo' tha rest of tha winter-creamed turkey, turkey sandwiches, turkey n' noodles, turkey surprise.

Fuck dat shit, Wendy holla'd at his ass wit a lil smile. Only until Chrizzle. Then our crazy asses have tha capon.

Jack n' Danny groaned together.

Da bruises on Danny's neck had faded, n' they fears seemed ta have faded wit dem wild-ass muthafuckas. On Thanksgivin afternoon Wendy had been pullin Danny round on his sled while Jack hit dat shiznit on tha play, which was now almost done.

"Is you still afraid, doe?" dat freaky freaky biatch had asked, not knowin bow ta put tha question less baldly.

"Yes," he answered simply. "But now I stay up in tha safe places."

"Yo crazy-ass daddy say dat sooner or lata tha forest rangers will wonder why we're not checkin up in on tha CB radio. They'll come ta peep if anythang is wrong. We might go down then. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Yo ass n' I fo' realz. And let yo' daddy finish tha winter n' shiznit yo. Dude has phat reasons fo' wantin to. In a way, doe... I know dis is hard fo' you ta understand... our backs is against tha wall."

"Yes," dat schmoooove muthafucka had answered noncommittally.

On dis sparklin afternoon tha two of dem was upstairs, n' Danny knew dat they had been makin love. They was dozin now, nahmeean, biatch? They was happy, he knew yo. His mutha was still a lil bit afraid yo, but his wild lil' father's attitude was strange. Dat shiznit was a gangbangin' feelin dat dat schmoooove muthafucka had done suttin' dat was straight-up hard n' had done it right. But Danny could not seem ta peep exactly what tha fuck tha suttin' was yo. His daddy was guardin dat carefully, even up in his own mind. Was it possible, Danny wondered, ta be glad you had done suttin' n' still be all kindsa ashamed of dat suttin' dat you tried not ta be thinkin of it, biatch? Da question was a gangbangin' finger-lickin' disturbin one yo. Dude didn't be thinkin such a thang was possible... up in a aiiight mind. His hardest probings at his wild lil' daddy had only brought his ass a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dim picture of suttin' like a octopus, whirlin up tha fuck into tha hard blue sky fo' realz. And on both occasions dat dat schmoooove muthafucka had concentrated hard enough ta git this, Daddy had suddenly been starin at his ass up in a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass sharp n' frightenin way, as if he knew what tha fuck Danny was bustin.

Now da thug was up in tha lobby, gettin locked n loaded ta go up yo. Dude went up a lot, takin his sled or bustin his snowshoes yo. Dude was horny bout ta git outta tha hotel. When da thug was up in tha sunshine, it seemed like a weight had slipped from his shoulders.

Dude pulled a cold-ass lil chair over, stood on it, n' gots his thugged-out lil' parka n' snow baggy-ass pants outta tha ballroom closet, n' then sat down on tha chair ta put dem on. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. His boots was up in tha boot box n' he pulled dem on, his cold-ass tongue creepin up tha fuck into tha corner of his crazy-ass grill up in concentration as he laced dem n' tied tha rawhide tha fuck into careful granny knots yo. Dude pulled on his crazy-ass mittens n' his ski mask n' was ready.

Dude tramped up all up in tha kitchen ta tha back door, then paused. Dude was pissed wit playin up back, n' at dis time of dizzle tha hotel's shadow would be cast over his thugged-out lil' play area yo. Dude didn't even like bein up in tha Overlook's shadow yo. Dude decided be would put on his snowshoes n' go down ta tha playground instead. Dick Hallorann had holla'd at his ass ta stay away from tha topiary yo, but tha thought of tha hedge muthafuckas did not bother his ass much. They was buried under snowdrifts now, not a god damn thang showin but a vague hump dat was tha rabbit's head n' tha lions' tails. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Stickin outta tha snow tha way they were, tha tails looked mo' absurd than frightening.

Danny opened tha back door n' gots his snowshoes from tha gin n juice platform. Five minutes lata da thug was strappin dem ta his wild lil' feet on tha front porch yo. His daddy had holla'd at his ass dat he (Danny) had tha hang of rockin tha snowshoes-the lazy, shufflin stride, tha twist of ankle dat shook tha powdery snow from tha lacings just before tha boot came back down-and all dat remained was fo' his ass ta build up tha necessary musclez up in his wild lil' fat-ass thighs n' calves n' ankles. Danny found it at his thugged-out anklez gots chillaxed tha fastest. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Snowshoein was almost as hard on yo' anklez as skating, cuz you had ta keep clearin tha lacings. Every five minutes or so dat schmoooove muthafucka had ta stop wit his hairy-ass legs spread n' tha snowshoes fat on tha snow ta rest dem wild-ass muthafuckas.

But da ruffneck didn't gotta rest on his way down ta tha playground cuz dat shiznit was all downhill. Less than ten minutes afta da perved-out muthafucka struggled up n' over tha monstrous snow-dune dat had drifted up in on tha Overlook's front porch da thug was standin wit his crazy-ass mittened hand on tha playground slide yo. Dude wasn't even breathang hard.

Da playground seemed much sickr up in tha deep snow than it eva had durin tha autumn. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Well shiiiit, it looked like a gangbangin' fairyland sculpture. Da swin chains had been frozen up in strange positions, tha seatz of tha big-ass kids' swings restin flush against tha snow. Da jungle toilet was a ice-cave guarded by drippin icicle teeth. Only tha chimneyz of tha play-Overlook stuck up over tha snow

(wish tha other one was buried dat way only not wit our asses up in it)

and tha topz of tha cement rings protruded up in two places like Eskimo igloos. Danny tramped over there, squatted, n' fuckin started ta dig. Before long dat schmoooove muthafucka had uncovered tha dark grill of one of dem n' da perved-out muthafucka slipped tha fuck into tha cold tunnel. In his crazy-ass mind da thug was Patrick McGoohan, tha Secret Agent Man (they had shown tha rerunz of dat program twice on tha Burlington TV channel n' his fuckin lil' daddy never missed them; da thug would skip a jam ta stay home n' peep "Secret Agent" or "Da Avengers" n' Danny had always peeped wit him), on tha run from KGB agents up in tha mountainz of Switzerland. There had been avalanches up in tha area n' tha notorious KGB agent Slobbo had capped his wild lil' freakadelic hoe wit a poison dart yo, but somewhere near was tha Russian antigravitizzle machine. Perhaps all up in tha end of dis straight-up tunnel yo. Dude drew his thugged-out automatic n' went along tha concrete tunnel, his wild lil' fuckin eyes wide n' alert, his breath plumin out.

Da far end of tha concrete rang was solidly blocked wit snow yo. Dude tried diggin all up in it n' was amazed (and a lil uneasy) ta peep how tha fuck solid it was, almost like ice from tha cold n' tha constant weight of mo' snow on top of dat shit.

His make-believe game collapsed round his ass n' da thug was suddenly aware dat he felt closed up in n' mad straight-up trippin up in dis tight rang of cement yo. Dude could hear his breathing; it sounded dank n' quick n' hollow yo. Dude was under tha snow, n' hardly any light filtered down tha hole dat schmoooove muthafucka had dug ta git up in here, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Suddenly da thug wanted ta be up in tha sunlight mo' than anything, suddenly he remembered his fuckin lil' daddy n' mommy was chillin n' didn't know there da thug was, dat if tha hole da ruffneck dug caved up in da thug would be trapped, n' tha Overlook didn't like his muthafuckin ass.

Danny gots turned round wit some hang-up n' crawled back along tha length of tha concrete ring, his snowshoes clackin woodenly together behind him, his thugged-out lil' palms cracklin up in last fall's dead aspen leaves beneath his muthafuckin ass yo. Dude had just reached tha end n' tha cold spill of light comin down from above when tha snow did give in, a minor fall yo, but enough ta powder his wild lil' grill n' clog tha openin dat schmoooove muthafucka had wriggled down all up in n' leave his ass up in darkness.

For a moment his dome froze up in utta panic n' his schmoooove ass could not think. Then, as if from far off, dat schmoooove muthafucka heard his fuckin lil' daddy spittin some lyrics ta his ass dat he must never play all up in tha Stovington dump, cuz sometimes wack playas hauled oldschool refrigerators off ta tha dump without removin tha doors n' if you gots up in one n' tha door happened ta shut on you, there was no way ta git out. Yo ass would take a thugged-out dirtnap up in tha darkness.

(Yo ass wouldn't want a thang like dat ta happen ta you, would you, doc?)

(Fuck dat shit, Daddy.)

But it had happened, his wild lil' frenzied mind holla'd at him, it had happened, da thug was up in tha dark, da thug was closed in, n' dat shiznit was as cold as a refrigerator fo' realz. And-

(suttin' is up in here wit mah dirty ass.)

His breath stopped up in a gasp fo' realz. An almost drowsy terror stole all up in his veins. Yes yes y'all. Yes yes y'all. There was suttin' up in here wit him, some wack thang tha Overlook had saved fo' just such a cold-ass lil chizzle as all dis bullshit. Maybe a big-ass spider dat had burrowed down under tha dead leaves, or a rat... or maybe tha corpse of some lil kid dat had took a dirt nap here on tha playground. Had dat eva happened, biatch? Yes, tha pimpin' muthafucka thought maybe it had. Dude thought of tha biatch up in tha tub. Da blood n' domes on tha wall of tha Presidential Sweet. Of some lil kid, its head split open from a gangbangin' fall from tha monkey bars or a swing, crawlin afta his ass up in tha dark, grinning, lookin fo' one final playmate up in its endless playground. Forever n' shit. In a moment da thug would hear it coming.

At tha far end of tha concrete ring, Danny heard tha stealthy crackle of dead leaves as suttin' came fo' his ass on its handz n' knees fo' realz. At any moment da thug would feel its cold hand close over his thugged-out ankle-

That thought broke his thugged-out lil' paralysis yo. Dude was diggin all up in tha loose fall of snow dat choked tha end of tha concrete ring, throwin it back between his hairy-ass legs up in powdery bursts like a thugged-out dawg diggin fo' a funky-ass bone. Blue light filtered down from above n' Danny thrust his dirty ass up at it like a gangbangin' finger-lickin' diver comin outta deep gin n juice n' shiznit yo. Dude scraped his back on tha lip of tha concrete ring. One of his snowshoes twisted behind tha other n' shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Snow spilled down inside his ski mask n' tha fuck into tha collar of his thugged-out lil' parka yo. Dude dug all up in tha snow, clawed at dat shit. Well shiiiit, it seemed ta be tryin ta hold him, ta suck his ass back down, back tha fuck into tha concrete rang where dat unseen, leaf-cracklin thang was, n' keep his ass there, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. Forever.

Then da thug was out, his wild lil' grill was turned up ta tha sun, n' da thug was crawlin all up in tha snow, crawlin away from tha half-buried cement ring, gaspin harshly, his wild lil' grill almost comically white wit powdered snow-a livin frightmask yo. Dude hobbled over ta tha jungle toilet n' sat down ta readjust his snowshoes n' git his breath fo' realz. As da perved-out muthafucka set dem ta muthafuckin rights n' tightened tha straps again, he never took his wild lil' fuckin eyes from tha hole all up in tha end of tha concrete rang yo. Dude waited ta peep if suttin' would come out. Nothang did, n' afta three or four minutes, Danny's breathang fuckin started ta slow down. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Whatever it was, it couldn't stand tha sunlight. Dat shiznit was cooped up down there, maybe only able ta come up when dat shiznit was dark... or when both endz of its circular prison was plugged wit snow.

(but i'm safe now i'm safe i'll just go back cuz now i'm)

Somethang thumped softly behind his muthafuckin ass.

Dude turned around, toward tha hotel, n' looked. But even before he looked

(Yo ass betta peep tha Indians up in dis picture?)

he knew what tha fuck da thug would see, cuz he knew what tha fuck dat soft thumpin sound had been. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Dat shiznit was tha sound of a big-ass clump of snow falling, tha way it sounded when it slid off tha roof of tha hotel n' fell tha fuck ta tha ground.

(Yo ass betta see-?)

Yes yo. Dude could. Da snow had fallen off tha hedge dog. When his schmoooove ass came down it had only been a harmless lump of snow outside tha playground. Now it stood revealed, a incongruous splash of chronic up in all tha eye-waterin whiteness. Dat shiznit was chillin up, as if ta beg a thugged-out dope or a scrap.

But dis time da thug wouldn't go crazy, da thug wouldn't blow his cool. Because at least da thug wasn't trapped up in some dark oldschool hole yo. Dude was up in tha sunlight fo' realz. And dat shiznit was just a thugged-out dog. It's pretty warm up todizzle, tha pimpin' muthafucka thought hopefully. Maybe tha sun just melted enough snow off dat oldschool dawg so tha rest fell tha git tha fuck outta mah grill wit dat bullshit up in a funky-ass bunch. Maybe that's all it is.

(Don't go near dat place... steer right clear.)

His snowshoe bindings was as tight as they was eva goin ta be yo. Dude stood up n' stared back all up in tha concrete ring, almost straight-up submerged up in tha snow, n' what tha fuck da perved-out muthafucka saw all up in tha end dat schmoooove muthafucka had exited from froze his thugged-out ass. There was a cold-ass lil circular patch of darknizz all up in tha end of it, a gangbangin' fold of shadow dat marked tha hole he'd dug ta git down inside. Now, up in spite of tha snow-dazzle, tha pimpin' muthafucka thought his schmoooove ass could peep suttin' there, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Somethang movin fo' realz. A hand. Da wavin hand of some desperately unaiiight child, wavin hand, pleadin crew, drownin hand.

(Save me O please save me If you can't save me at least come fuck wit mah dirty ass... Forever n' shiznit fo' realz. And Forever n' shiznit fo' realz. And Forever.)

"No," Danny whispered huskily. Da word fell tha fuck dry n' bare from his crazy-ass grill, which was stripped of moisture yo. Dude could feel his crazy-ass mind waverin now, tryin ta go away tha way it had when tha biatch up in tha room had... no, betta not be thinkin of all dis bullshit.

Dude grasped all up in tha stringz of realitizzle n' held dem tightly yo. Dude had ta git outta here, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. Concentrate on dis shit. Be cool. Be like tha Secret Agent Man. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Would Patrick McGoohan be bustin up like a biatch n' peein up in his baggy-ass pants like a lil baby?

Would his fuckin lil' daddy?

That calmed his ass somewhat.

From behind him, dat soft Hump sound of fallin snow came again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude turned round n' tha head of one of tha hedge lions was stickin outta tha snow now, snarlin at his muthafuckin ass. Dat shiznit was closer than it should have been, almost up ta tha gate of tha playground.

Terror tried ta rise up n' he quelled it yo. Dude was tha Secret Agent Man, n' da thug would escape.

Dude fuckin started ta strutt outta tha playground, takin tha same roundabout course his wild lil' daddy had taken on tha dizzle dat tha snow flew yo. Dude concentrated on operatin tha snowshoes. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Slow, flat strides. Don't lift yo' foot too high or you'll lose yo' balance. Twist yo' ankle n' spill tha snow off tha crisscrossed lacings. Well shiiiit, it seemed so slow yo. Dude reached tha corner of tha playground. Da snow was drifted high here n' da thug was able ta step over tha fence yo. Dude gots halfway over n' then almost fell tha fuck flat when tha snowshoe on his behind foot caught on one of tha fence posts yo. Dude leaned on tha outside edge of gravity, pinwheelin his thugged-out arms, rememberin how tha fuck bard dat shiznit was ta git up once you fell tha fuck down.

From his bangin right, dat soft sound again, fallin clumpz of snow yo. Dude looked over n' saw tha other two lions, clear of snow now down ta they forepaws, side by side, bout sixty paces away. Da chronic indentations dat was they eyes was fixed on his muthafuckin ass. Da dawg had turned its head.

(It only happens when you're not looking.)

"Oh! Hey-"

His snowshoes had crossed n' he plunged forward tha fuck into tha snow, arms wavin uselessly. Mo' snow gots inside his hood n' down his neck n' tha fuck into tha topz of his boots yo. Dude struggled outta tha snow n' tried ta git tha snowshoes under him, ass hammerin crazily now

(Secret Agent Man remember you're tha Secret Agent)

and overbalanced backward. For a moment he lay there lookin all up in tha sky, thankin it would be simpla ta just give up.

Then tha pimpin' muthafucka thought of tha thang up in tha concrete tunnel n' knew his schmoooove ass could not yo. Dude gained his wild lil' feet n' stared over all up in tha topiary fo' realz. All three lions was bunched together now, not forty feet away. Da dawg had ranged off ta they left, as if ta block Danny's retreat. They was bare of snow except fo' powdery ruffs round they necks n' muzzles. They was all starin at his muthafuckin ass.

His breath was racin now, n' tha panic was like a rat behind his wild lil' forehead, twistin n' gnawin yo. Dude fought tha panic n' he fought tha snowshoes.

(Daddy's voice: Fuck dat shit, don't fight them, doc. Walk on dem like they was yo' own Nikes. Walk wit dem wild-ass muthafuckas.)

(Yes, Daddy.)

Dude fuckin started ta strutt again, tryin ta regain tha easy as fuck rhythm dat schmoooove muthafucka had practiced wit his fuckin lil' daddy. Little by lil it fuckin started ta come yo, but wit tha rhythm came a awarenizz of just how tha fuck chillaxed da thug was, how tha fuck much his wild lil' fear had exhausted his muthafuckin ass. Da tendonz of his wild lil' fat-ass thighs n' calves n' anklez was bangin' n' trembly fo' realz. Ahead his schmoooove ass could peep tha Overlook, mockingly distant, seemin ta stare at his ass wit its nuff windows, as if dis was some sort of contest up in which dat shiznit was mildly interested.

Danny looked back over his shoulder n' his hurried breathang caught fo' a moment n' then hurried on even fasta n' shit. Da nearest lion was now only twenty feet behind, breastin all up in tha snow like a thugged-out dawg paddlin up in a pond. Da two others was ta its right n' left, pacin dat shit. They was like a army platoon on patrol, tha dog, still off ta they left, tha scout. Da closest lion had its head down. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da shouldaz bunched powerfully above its neck. Da tail was up, as if up in tha instant before dat schmoooove muthafucka had turned ta look it had been swishin back n' forth, back n' forth yo. Dude thought it looked like a pimped out big-ass housecat dat was havin a phat time playin wit a mouse before cappin' dat shit.

(-falling-)

Fuck dat shit, if he fell tha fuck da thug was dead as fuckin fried chicken. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. They would never let his ass git up. They would pounce yo. Dude pinwheeled his thugged-out arms madly n' lunged ahead, his centa of gravitizzle ridin' dirty just beyond his nozzle yo. Dude caught it n' hurried on, snappin glances back over his shoulder n' shit. Da air whistled up in n' outta his fuckin lil' dry throat like bangin' glass.

Da ghetto closed down ta tha dazzlin snow, tha chronic hedges, n' tha whispery sound of his snowshoes fo' realz. And suttin' else fo' realz. A soft, muffled paddin sound. Dude tried ta hurry fasta n' couldn't yo. Dude was struttin over tha buried driveway now, a lil' small-ass pimp wit his wild lil' grill almost buried up in tha shadow of his thugged-out lil' parka hood. I be fly as a gangbangin' falcon, soarin all up in tha sky dawwwwg! Da afternoon was still n' bright.

When he looked back again, tha point lion was only five feet behind. Dat shiznit was grinning. Its grill was open, its haunches tensed down like a cold-ass lil clockspring. Behind it n' tha others his schmoooove ass could peep tha rabbit, its head now stickin outta tha snow, bright green, as if it had turned its horrid blank grill ta peep tha end of tha stalk.

Now, on tha Overlook's front lawn between tha circular drive n' tha porch, he let tha panic loose n' fuckin started ta run clumsily up in tha snowshoes, not darin ta look back now, tiltin further n' further forward, his thugged-out arms up ahead of his ass like a funky-ass blind playa feelin fo' obstaclez yo. His hood fell tha fuck back, revealin his complexion, paste white givin way ta hectic red blotches on his cheeks, his wild lil' fuckin eyes bulgin wit terror. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Da porch was straight-up close now, nahmeean?

Behind his ass dat schmoooove muthafucka heard tha sudden hard crunch of snow as suttin' leaped.

Dude fell tha fuck on tha porch steps, beatboxin without sound, n' scrambled up dem on his handz n' knees, snowshoes clatterin n' askew behind his muthafuckin ass.

There was a slashin sound up in tha air n' sudden pain up in his fuckin leg. Da rippin sound of cloth. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Somethang else dat might have-must have-been up in his crazy-ass mind.

Bellowing, mad salty roar.

Smell of blood n' evergreen.

Dude fell tha fuck full-length on tha porch, sobbin hoarsely, tha rich, metallic taste of copper up in his crazy-ass grill yo. His ass was thunderin up in his chest. There was a lil' small-ass trickle of blood comin from his nose.

Dude had no clue how tha fuck long he lay there before tha lobby doors flew open n' Jack ran out, bustin just his jeans n' a pair of slippers. Wendy was behind his muthafuckin ass.

"Danny!" her big-ass booty screamed.

"Doc! Danny, fo' Christ's sake biaaatch! What's wrong, biatch? What happened?"

Daddy was helpin his ass up. Below tha knee his snowpants was ripped open. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Inside, his woollen ski sock had been ripped open n' his calf had been shallowly scratched... as if dat schmoooove muthafucka had tried ta push his way all up in a cold-ass lil closely grown everchronic hedge n' tha branches had clawed his muthafuckin ass.

Dude looked over his shoulder n' shit. Far down tha lawn, past tha puttin green, was a fuckin shitload of vague, snow-cowled humps. Da hedge muthafuckas. Between dem n' tha playground. Between dem n' tha road.

His hairy-ass legs gave way. Jack caught his muthafuckin ass yo. Dude fuckin started ta cry like a bitch.

Chapta 35. Da Lobby
Dude had holla'd at dem every last muthafuckin thang except what tha fuck had happened ta his ass when tha snow had blocked tha end of tha concrete rang yo. Dude couldn't brang his dirty ass ta repeat dis shiznit fo' realz. And be didn't know tha right lyrics ta express tha creeping, lassitudinous sense of terror dat schmoooove muthafucka had felt when dat schmoooove muthafucka heard tha dead aspen leaves begin ta crackle furtively down there up in tha cold darkness. But tha pimpin' muthafucka holla'd at dem bout tha soft sound of snow fallin up in clumps fo' realz. Bout tha lion wit its head n' its bunched shouldaz hustlin its way up n' outta tha snow ta chase his muthafuckin ass yo. Dude even holla'd at dem bout how tha fuck tha rabbit had turned its head ta peep near tha end.

Da three of dem was up in tha lobby. Jack had built a roarin blaze up in tha fireplace. Danny was bundled up in a funky-ass blanket on tha lil' small-ass sofa where once, a mazillion muthafuckin years ago, three nuns had sat bustin up like hoes while they waited fo' tha line all up in tha desk ta thin up yo. Dude was sippin bangin' noodle chronic from a mug. Wendy sat beside him, strokin his hair. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Jack had sat on tha floor, his wild lil' grill seemin ta grow mo' n' mo' still, mo' n' mo' set as Danny holla'd at his story. Twice he pulled his handkerchizzle outta his back pocket n' rubbed his sorelookin lips wit dat shit.

"Then they chased me," he finished. Jack gots up n' went over ta tha window, his back ta dem wild-ass muthafuckas yo. Dude looked at his crazy-ass mommy. "They chased mah crazy ass all tha way up ta tha porch." Dude was strugglin ta keep his voice calm, cuz if da perved-out muthafucka stayed calm maybe they would believe his muthafuckin ass. Mista Muthafuckin Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Stenger hadn't stayed calm yo. Dude had started ta cry n' hadn't been able ta stop SO THE MEN IN THE WHITE COATS had come ta take his ass away cuz if you couldn't stop bustin up like a biatch it meant you had LOST YOUR MARBLES n' when would you be back, biatch? NO ONE KNOWS yo. His parka n' snowpants n' tha clotted snowshoes lay on tha rug just inside tha big-ass double doors.

(I won't cry I won't let mah dirty ass cry)

And tha pimpin' muthafucka thought his schmoooove ass could do dat yo, but his schmoooove ass couldn't stop bobbin yo. Dude looked tha fuck into tha fire n' waited fo' Daddy ta say somethang yo. High yellow flames danced on tha dark stone hearth fo' realz. A pine-knot blew up like a muthafucka wit a funky-ass bang n' sparks rushed up tha flue.

"Danny, come over here." Jack turned around. His grill still had dat pinched, dirtnaply look. Danny didn't like ta peep dat shit.

"Jack-"

"I just want tha pimp over here fo' a minute."

Danny slipped off tha sofa n' came over beside his fuckin lil' daddy.

"Dope boy. Now what tha fuck do you see?"

Danny shitty known what tha fuck da thug would peep even before he gots ta tha window. Below tha clutta of boot tracks, sled tracks, n' snowshoe tracks dat marked they usual exercise area, tha snowfield dat covered tha Overlook's lawns sloped down ta tha topiary n' tha playground beyond. Dat shiznit was marred by two setz of tracks, one of dem up in a straight line from tha porch ta tha playground, tha other a long, loopin line comin back up.

"Only mah tracks, Daddy. But-"

"What bout tha hedges, Danny?"

Danny's lips fuckin started ta tremble yo. Dude was goin ta cry like a muthafucka. What if his schmoooove ass couldn't stop?

(i won't cry I Won't Cry Won't Won't WON'T)

"All covered wit snow," da thug whispered. "But, Daddy-"

"What, biatch? I couldn't hear you, nahmean biiiatch?"

"Jack, you're cross-examinin him! Can't you peep he's upset, he's-"

"Shut up! Well, Danny?"

"They scratched me, Daddy. My fuckin leg-"

"Yo ass must have cut yo' leg on tha crust of tha snow."

Then Wendy was between them, her grill pale n' mad salty. "What is you tryin ta make his ass do?" she axed his muthafuckin ass. "Confess ta murder, biatch? What's wack wit yo slick ass?"

Da strangenizz up in his wild lil' fuckin eyes seemed ta break then. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. "I'm tryin ta help his ass find tha difference between suttin' real n' suttin' dat was only a hallucination, that's all." Dude squatted by Danny so they was on a eye-to-eye level, n' then hugged his ass tight. "Danny, it didn't straight-up happen. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Okay, biatch? Dat shiznit was like one of dem trances you have sometimes. That's all."

"Daddy?"

"What, Dan?"

"I didn't cut mah leg on tha crust. There isn't any crust. It's all powdery snow. Well shiiiit, it won't even stick together ta make snowballs. Remember we tried ta git a snowbizzle fight n' couldn't?"

Dude felt his wild lil' daddy stiffen against his muthafuckin ass. "Da porch step, then."

Danny pulled away. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Suddenly dat schmoooove muthafucka had dat shit. Well shiiiit, it had flashed tha fuck into his crazy-ass mind all at once, tha way thangs sometimes did, tha way it had bout tha biatch wantin ta be up in dat gray dudez pants yo. Dude stared at his wild lil' daddy wit widenin eyes.

"Yo ass know I'm spittin some lyrics ta tha real deal," da thug whispered, shocked.

"Danny-"Jack's face, tightening.

"Yo ass know cuz you saw-"

Da sound of Jack's open palm strikin Danny's grill was flat, not dramatic at all. Da boy's head rocked back, tha palmprint reddenin on his cheek like a funky-ass brand.

Wendy done cooked up a beatboxin noise.

For a moment they was still, tha three of them, n' then Jack grabbed fo' his fuckin lil hustla n' holla'd, "Danny, I'm sorry, you aiiight, doc?"

"Yo ass hit him, you bastardl" Wendy cried. "Yo ass dirty bastard!"

Bitch grabbed his other arm n' fo' a moment Danny was pulled between dem wild-ass muthafuckas.

"Oh please stop pullin me!" da perved-out muthafucka screamed at them, n' there was such agony up in his voice dat they both let go of him, n' then tha tears had ta come n' his schmoooove ass collapsed, weeping, between tha sofa n' tha window, his thugged-out lil' muthafathas starin at his ass helplessly, tha way lil pimps might stare at a toy fucked up in a gangbangin' furious tussle over ta whom it belonged. In tha fireplace another pine-knot blew up like a muthafucka like a hand grenade, makin dem all jump.

Wendy gave his ass baby aspirin n' Jack slipped him, unprotesting, between tha sheetz of his cot yo. Dude was asleep up in no time wit his cold-ass thumb up in his crazy-ass grill.

"I don't like that," her big-ass booty holla'd. "It's a regression."

Jack didn't reply.

Bitch looked at his ass softly, without anger, without a smile, either n' shit. "Yo ass want me ta apologize fo' callin you a funky-ass bastard, biatch? All right, I apologize. I'm sorry bout dat bullshit. Yo ass still shouldn't have hit his muthafuckin ass.

"I know," he muttered. "I know dis shit. I don't know what tha fuck tha hell came over mah dirty ass."

"Yo ass promised you'd never hit his ass again."

Dude looked at her furiously, n' then tha fury collapsed. Suddenly, wit pitizzle n' horror, her big-ass booty saw what tha fuck Jack would be lookin like as a oldschool man. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch had never peeped his ass look dat way before.

(?what way?)

Defeated, she answered her muthafuckin ass yo. Dude looks beaten.

Dude holla'd: "I always thought I could keep mah promises."

Bitch went ta his ass n' put her handz on his thugged-out arm. "All right, it's over n' shiznit fo' realz. And when tha ranger comes ta check us, we'll tell his ass we all wanna go down. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. All right?"

"All right," Jack holla'd, n' at dat moment, at least, he meant dat shit. Da same way dat schmoooove muthafucka had always meant it on dem mornings after, lookin at his thugged-out lil' pale n' haggard grill up in tha bathroom mirror. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. I'm goin ta stop, goin ta cut it off flat. But mornin gave way ta afternoon, n' up in tha afternoons he felt a lil mo' betta n' shiznit fo' realz. And afternoon gave way ta night fo' realz. As some pimped out twentieth-century thinker had holla'd, night must fall.

Dude found his dirty ass wishin dat Wendy would ask his ass bout tha hedges, would ask his ass what tha fuck Danny meant, when da perved-out muthafucka holla'd Yo ass know cuz you saw- If her dope ass did, da thug would tell her every last muthafuckin thang. Everything. Da hedges, tha biatch up in tha room, even bout tha fire hose dat seemed ta have switched positions. But where did confession stop, biatch? Could tha pimpin' muthafucka tell her he'd thrown tha magneto away, dat they could all be down up in Sidewinder right now if dat schmoooove muthafucka hadn't done that?

What her big-ass booty holla'd was, "Do you want tea?"

"Yes fo' realz. A cup of chronic would be good."

Bitch went ta tha door n' paused there, rubbin her forearms all up in her sweater n' shit. "It's mah fault as much as yours," her big-ass booty holla'd. "What was our phat asses bustin while da thug was goin all up in that... dream, or whatever it was?"

"Wendy-"

"Us thugs was chillin," her big-ass booty holla'd. "Chillin like a cold-ass lil couple teenage lil playas wit they itch sickly scratched."

"Quit it," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. "It's over."

"No," Wendy answered, n' gave his ass a strange, restless smile. "It's not over."

Bitch went up ta make tea, leavin his ass ta keep peep over they son.

Chapta 36. Da Elevator
Jack awoke from a thin n' uneasy chill where big-ass n' ill-defined shapes chased his ass all up in endless snowfieldz ta what tha fuck he first thought was another dream: darkness, n' up in it, a sudden mechanical jumble of noises-clicks n' clanks, hummings, rattlings, snaps n' whooshes.

Then Wendy sat up beside his ass n' he knew dat shiznit was no dream.

"What's that?" Her hand, cold marble, gripped his wrist yo. Dude restrained a urge ta shake it off-how up in tha hell was da perved-out muthafucka supposed ta know what tha fuck it was, biatch? Da illuminated clock on his nightstand holla'd dat shiznit was five minutes ta twelve.

Da hummin sound again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Loud n' steady, varyin tha slightest bit. Followed by a cold-ass lil clank as tha hummin ceased. A rattlin bang fo' realz. A thump. Then tha hummin resumed.

Dat shiznit was tha elevator.

Danny was chillin up. "Daddy, biatch? Daddy?" His voice was chilly n' trippin like a muthafucka.

"Right here, doc," Jack holla'd. "Come on over n' jump in. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Yo crazy-ass mom's awake, like a muthafucka."

Da bedthreadz rustled as Danny gots on tha bed between dem wild-ass muthafuckas. "It's tha elevator," da thug whispered.

"That's right," Jack holla'd. "Just tha elevator."

"What do you mean, just?" Wendy demanded. There was a ice-skim of hysteria on her voice. "It's tha middle of tha night. Who's hustlin it?"

Hummmmmmm. Click/clank fo' realz. Above dem now, nahmeean, biatch? Da rattle of tha gate accordionin back, tha bump of tha doors openin n' closing. Then tha hum of tha motor n' tha cablez again.

Danny fuckin started ta whimper.

Jack swung his wild lil' feet outta bed n' onto tha floor. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. "It's probably a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass short. I'll check."

"Don't you dare go outta dis room!"

"Don't be stupid," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, pullin on his bangin robe. "It's mah thang."

Bitch was outta bed her muthafuckin ass a moment later, pullin Danny wit her muthafuckin ass.

"We'll go, like a muthafucka."

"Wendy-"

"What's wrong?" Danny axed somberly. "What's wrong, Daddy?"

Instead of answerin tha pimpin' muthafucka turned away, his wild lil' grill mad salty n' set yo. Dude belted his bangin robe round his ass all up in tha door, opened it, n' stepped up tha fuck into tha dark hall.

Wendy hesitated fo' a moment, n' dat shiznit was straight-up Danny whoz ass fuckin started ta move first. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch caught up quickly, n' they went up together.

Jack hadn't bothered wit tha lights, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch fumbled fo' tha switch dat lit tha four spaced overheadz up in tha hallway dat hustled ta tha main corridor. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Up ahead, Jack was already turnin tha corner n' shit. This time Danny found tha switchplate n' flicked all three switches up. Da hallway leadin down ta tha stairs n' tha elevator shaft came alight.

Jack was standin all up in tha elevator station, which was flanked by benches n' blunt urns yo. Dude was standin motionless up in front of tha closed elevator door. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. In his wild lil' faded tartan bathrobe n' brown leather slippers wit tha rundown heels, his afro all up in chill corkscrews n' Alfalfa cowlicks, he looked ta her like a absurd twentieth-century Hamlet, a indecisive figure so mesmerized by onrushin fuck up dat da thug was helpless ta divert its course or alta it up in any way.

(jesus stop thankin so crazy-)

Danny's hand shitty tightened painfully on her own. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude was lookin up at her intently, his wild lil' grill strained n' anxious yo. Dude had been catchin tha drift of her thoughts, she realized. Just bow much or how tha fuck lil of dem da thug was gettin was impossible ta say yo, but she flushed, feelin much tha same as if dat schmoooove muthafucka had caught her up in a masturbatory act.

"Come on," her big-ass booty holla'd, n' they went down tha hall ta Jack.

Da hummings n' clankings n' thumpings was louder here, terrifyin up in a gangbangin' finger-lickin' disconnected, benumbed way. Jack was starin all up in tha closed door wit feverish intensity. Through tha diamond-shaped window up in tha centa of tha elevator door dat dunkadelic hoe thought dat thugged-out biiiatch could make up tha cables, thrummin slightly. Da elevator clanked ta a stop below them, at lobby level. They beard tha doors thump open. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. And...

(party)

Why had dat dunkadelic hoe thought party, biatch? Da word had simply jumped tha fuck into her head fo' no reason at all. Da silence up in tha Overlook was complete n' intense except fo' tha weird noises comin up tha elevator shaft.

(must done been like a party)

(???WHAT PARTY???)

For just a moment her mind had filled wit a image so real dat it seemed ta be a memory... not just any memory but one of dem you treasure, one of dem you keep fo' straight-up special occasions n' rarely mention aloud. Lights... hundreds, maybe thousandz of dem wild-ass muthafuckas. Lights n' colors, tha pop of champagne corks, a gangbangin' forty-piece orchestra playin Glenn Miller's "In tha Vibe." But Glenn Milla had gone down up in his bomber before dat biiiiatch was born, how tha fuck could dat freaky freaky biatch gotz a memory of Glenn Miller?

Bitch looked down at Danny n' saw his head had cocked ta one side, as if da thug was hearin suttin' dat thugged-out biiiatch couldn't hear yo. His grill was straight-up pale.

Thump.

Da door had slid shut down there, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho fo' realz. A hummin whine as tha elevator fuckin started ta rise. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch saw tha engine housin on top of tha hoopty first all up in tha diamondshaped window, then tha interior of tha car, peeped all up in tha further diamond shapes made by tha brass gate. Warm yellow light from tha car's overhead. Dat shiznit was empty. Da hoopty was empty. Dat shiznit was empty but

(on tha night of tha jam they must have crowded up in by tha dozens, crowded tha hoopty way beyond its safety limit but of course it had been freshly smoked up then n' all of dem bustin masks)

(????WHAT MASKS????)

Da hoopty stopped above them, on tha third floor. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch looked at Danny yo. His grill was all eyes yo. His grill was pressed tha fuck into a gangbangin' frightened, bloodless slit fo' realz. Above them, tha brass gate rattled back. Da elevator door thumped open, it thumped open cuz dat shiznit was time, tha time had come, dat shiznit was time ta say

(Goodnight... git tha fuck outta ma bidness... fo'sho, dat shiznit was ghettofab... no, i straight-up can't stay fo' tha unmasking... early ta bed, early ta rise... oh, was dat Sheila?... tha monk?... isn't dat witty, Sheila comin as a monk?... fo'sho, git tha fuck outta ma bidness...good)

Thump.

Gears clashed. Da motor engaged. Da hoopty fuckin started ta whine back down.

"Jack," dat biiiiatch whispered. "What tha fuck iz it, biatch? What's wack wit it?"

"A short circuit," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. His grill was like wood. I be fly as a gangbangin' falcon, soarin all up in tha sky dawwwwg! "I holla'd at you, dat shiznit was a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass short circuit."

"I keep hearin voices up in mah head!" dat thugged-out biiiatch cried. "What tha fuck iz it, biatch? What's wrong, biatch? I feel like I'm goin crazy!"

"What voices?" Dude looked at her wit deadly blandness.

Bitch turned ta Danny. "Did you-?"

Danny nodded slowly. "Yes fo' realz. And beatz. Drop dis like itz hot! Like from a long-ass time ago. In mah head."

Da elevator hoopty stopped again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da hotel was silent, creaking, deserted. This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. Outside, tha wind whined round tha eaves up in tha darkness.

"Maybe yo ass is both crazy," Jack holla'd conversationally. "I don't hear a goddamned thang except dat elevator havin a cold-ass lil case of tha electrical hiccups. If you two wanna have duet hysterics, fine. But count me out."

Da elevator was comin down again.

Jack stepped ta tha right, where a glass-fronted box was mounted on tha wall at chest height yo. Dude smashed his bare fist against dat shit. Glass tinkled inward. Blood dripped from two of his knucklez yo. Dude reached up in n' took up a key wit a long, smooth barrel.

"Jack, no. Don't."

"I be goin ta do mah thang. Now leave me alone, Wendy!"

Bitch tried ta grab his thugged-out arm yo. Dude pushed her backward. Her feet tangled up in tha hem of her robe n' she fell tha fuck ta tha carpet wit a ungainly thump. Danny cried up shrilly n' fell tha fuck on his knees beside her n' shit. Jack turned back ta tha elevator n' thrust tha key tha fuck into tha socket.

Da elevator cablez disappeared n' tha bottom of tha hoopty came tha fuck into view up in tha lil' small-ass window fo' realz. A second lata Jack turned tha key hard. There was a grating, screechin sound as tha elevator hoopty came ta a instant standstill. For a moment tha declutched motor up in tha basement whined even louder, n' then its circuit breaker cut up in n' tha Overlook went unearthly still. Da night wind outside seemed straight-up bangin by comparison. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Jack looked stupidly all up in tha gray metal elevator door. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. There was three splotchez of blood below tha keyhole from his fuckin lacerated knuckles.

Dude turned back ta Wendy n' Danny fo' a moment. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch was chillin up, n' Danny had his thugged-out arm round her n' shit. They was both starin at his ass carefully, as if da thug was a stranger they had never peeped before, possibly a gangbangin' fucked up one yo. Dude opened his crazy-ass grill, not shizzle what tha fuck was goin ta come out.

"It... Wendy, it's mah thang."

Bitch holla'd clearly: "Fuck yo' thang"

Dude turned back ta tha elevator, hit dat shiznit his wild lil' fingers tha fuck into tha crack dat ran down tha right side of tha door, n' gots it ta open a lil way. Then da thug was able ta git his whole weight on it n' threw tha door open.

Da hoopty had stopped halfway, its floor at Jack's chest level. Warm light still spilled outta it, contrastin wit tha oily darknizz of tha shaft below.

Dude looked up in fo' what tha fuck seemed a long-ass time.

"It's empty," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd then. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. "A short circuit, like I holla'd." Dude hooked his wild lil' fingers tha fuck into tha slot behind tha door n' fuckin started ta pull it closed... then her hand was on his shoulder, surprisingly strong, yankin his ass away.

"Wendy!" da perved-out muthafucka shouted. This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. But dat freaky freaky biatch had already caught tha car's bottom edge n' pulled her muthafuckin ass up enough so dat thugged-out biiiatch could look in. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Then, wit a cold-ass lil convulsive heave of her shoulder n' belly muscles, dat dunkadelic hoe tried ta boost her muthafuckin ass all tha way up. For a moment tha issue was up in doubt yo. Her feet tottered over tha blacknizz of tha shaft n' one pink slipper fell tha fuck from her foot n' slipped outta sight.

"Mommy!" Danny screamed.

Then dat biiiiatch was up, her cheeks flushed, her forehead as pale n' shinin as a spirit lamp. "What bout this, Jack, biatch? Is dis a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass short circuit?" Biatch threw suttin' n' suddenly tha hall was full of driftin confetti, red n' white n' blue n' yellow. "Is this?" A chronic jam streamer, faded ta a pale pastel color wit age.

"And this?"

Bitch tossed it up n' it came ta rest on tha blue-black jungle carpet, a funky-ass black silk pussaaaaay's-eye mask, dusted wit sequins all up in tha temples.

"Do dat be lookin like a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass short circuit ta you, Jack?" her big-ass booty screamed at his muthafuckin ass.

Jack stepped slowly away from it, bobbin his head mechanically back n' forth. Da pussaaaaay's-eye mask stared up blankly all up in tha ceilin from tha confettistrewn hallway carpet.

Chapta 37. Da Ballroom
Dat shiznit was tha straight-up original gangsta of December.

Danny was up in tha eastside-win ballroom, standin on a over-stuffed, high-backed win chair, lookin all up in tha clock under glass. Well shiiiit, it stood up in tha centa of tha ballroom's high, ornamenstrual mantelpiece, flanked by two big-ass ivory elephants yo. Dude almost expected tha elephants would begin ta move n' try ta gore his ass wit they tusks as da perved-out muthafucka stood there yo, but they was moveless. They was "safe." Since tha night of tha elevator da perved-out muthafucka shitty come ta divide all thangs all up in tha Overlook tha fuck into two categories. Put ya muthafuckin choppers up if ya feel dis! Da elevator, tha basement, tha playground, Room 217, n' tha Presidential Suite (it was Suite, not Sweet; dat schmoooove muthafucka had peeped tha erect spellin up in a account book Daddy had been readin at supper last night n' had memorized it carefully)-those places was "unsafe." Their quarters, tha lobby, n' tha porch was "safe." Apparently tha ballroom was, like a muthafucka.

(Da elephants are, anyway.)

Dude was not shizzle bout other places n' so avoided dem on general principle.

Dude looked all up in tha clock inside tha glass dome. Dat shiznit was under glass cuz all its wheels n' cogs n' springs was showin fo' realz. A chrome or steel track ran round tha outside of these works, n' directly below tha clockface there was a lil' small-ass axis bar wit a pair of meshin cogs at either end yo, but it ain't no stoppin cause I be still poppin'. Da handz of tha clock stood at quarta past XI, n' although da ruffneck didn't know Roman numerals his schmoooove ass could guess by tha configuration of tha handz at what tha fuck time tha clock had stopped. Da clock stood on a velvet base. In front of it, slightly distorted by tha curve of tha dome, was a cold-ass lil carefully carved silver key.

Dude supposed dat tha clock was one of tha thangs da thug wasn't supposed ta touch, like tha decoratizzle fire-tools up in they brass-bound cabinet by tha lobby fireplace or tha tall china highboy all up in tha back of tha dinin room.

A sense of injustice n' a gangbangin' feelin of mad salty rebellion suddenly rose up in his ass and

(never mind what tha fuck t' m not supposed ta touch, just never mind. touched me, hasn't it, biatch? played wit me, hasn't it?)

It had. And it hadn't been particularly careful not ta break him, either.

Danny put his handz out, grasped tha glass dome, n' lifted it aside yo. Dude let one finger play over tha works fo' a moment, tha pad of his crazy-ass muthafuckin index finger dentin against tha cogs, hustlin smoothly over tha wheels yo. Dude picked up tha silver key. For a adult it would done been uncomfortably lil' small-ass yo, but it fitted his own fingers perfectly yo. Dude placed it up in tha keyhole all up in tha centa of tha clockface. Well shiiiit, it went firmly home wit a tiny click, mo' felt than heard. Well shiiiit, it wound ta tha right, of course; clockwise.

Danny turned tha key until it would turn no mo' n' then removed dat shit. Da clock fuckin started ta tick. Cogs turned. A big-ass balizzle wheel rocked back n' forth up in semicircles. Da handz was moving. If you kept yo' head perfectly motionless n' yo' eyes wide open, you could peep tha minute hand inchin along toward its meetin some forty-five minutes from now wit tha minute hand. At XII.

(And tha Red Dirtnap held sway over all.)

Dude frowned, n' then shook tha thought away. Dat shiznit was a thought wit no meanin or reference fo' his muthafuckin ass.

Dude reached his crazy-ass muthafuckin index finger up again n' again n' again n' pushed tha minute crew up ta tha hour, curious bout what tha fuck might happen. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Well shiiiit, it obviously wasn't a cold-ass lil cuckoo clock yo, but dat steel rail shitty ta have some purpose.

There was a small, ratchetin seriez of clicks, n' then tha clock fuckin started ta tinkle Strauss's "Blue Danube Waltz." A socked roll of cloth no mo' than two inches up in width fuckin started ta unwind. A lil' small-ass seriez of brass strikers rose n' fell. From behind tha clockface two figures glided tha fuck into view along tha steel track, ballet dancers, on tha left a hoe up in a gangbangin' fluffy skirt n' white stockings, on tha right a funky-ass pimp up in a funky-ass black leotard n' ballet slippers. Their handz was held up in arches over they beads. They came together up in tha middle, up in front of VI.

Danny espied tiny grooves up in they sides, just below they armpits, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. Da axis bar slipped tha fuck into these grooves n' dat schmoooove muthafucka heard another lil' small-ass click. Da cogs at either end of tha bar fuckin started to. turn, so check it before ya wreck it. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. "Da Blue Danube" tinkled. Da dancers' arms came down round each other n' shit. Da pimp flipped tha hoe up over his head n' then whirled over tha bar. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. They was now lyin prone, tha boy's head buried beneath tha girl's short ballet skirt, tha girl's grill pressed against tha centa of tha boy's leotard. They writhed up in a mechanical frenzy.

Danny's nozzle wrinkled. They was humpin' peepees. That made his ass feel sick.

A moment lata n' thangs fuckin started ta run backward. Da pimp whirled back over tha axis bar yo. Dude flipped tha hoe tha fuck into a upright position. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. They seemed ta nod knowingly at each other as they handz arched back over they heads. They retreated tha way they had come, disappearin just as "Da Blue Danube" finished. Da clock fuckin started ta strike a cold-ass lil count of silver chimes.

(Midnight son! Stroke of midnight!)

(Hooray fo' masks!)

Danny whirled on tha chair, almost fallin down. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da ballroom was empty. Beyond tha double cathedral window his schmoooove ass could peep fresh snow beginnin ta sift down. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da big-ass ballroom rug (rolled up fo' ridin' dirty, of course), a rich tangle of red n' gold embroidery, lay undisturbed on tha floor. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Spaced round it was small, intimate tablez fo' two, tha spidery chairs dat went wit each upended wit hairy-ass legs pointin all up in tha ceiling.

Da whole place was empty.

But it wasn't straight-up empty. Because here up in tha Overlook thangs just went on n' on. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Here up in tha Overlook all times was one. There was a endless night up in August of 1945, wit laughta n' dranks n' a cold-ass lil chosen shinin few goin up n' comin down up in tha elevator, drankin champagne n' poppin jam favors up in each other's faces. Dat shiznit was a not-yet-light mornin up in June some twenty muthafuckin years lata n' tha organization hittas endlessly pumped shotgun shells tha fuck into tha torn n' bleedin bodiez of three pimps whoz ass went all up in they agony endlessly. In a room on tha second floor a biatch lolled up in her tub n' waited fo' visitors.

In tha Overlook all thangs had a sort of game. Dat shiznit was as if tha whole place had been wound up wit a silver key. Da clock was hustlin. Da clock was hustlin.

Dude was dat key, Danny thought sadly. Tony had warned his ass n' dat schmoooove muthafucka had just let thangs go on.

(I'm just five!)

he cried ta some half-felt presence up in tha room.

(Doesn't it make any deference dat I'm just five?)

There was no answer.

Dude turned reluctantly back ta tha clock.

Dude had been puttin it off, hopin dat suttin' would happen ta help his ass stay tha fuck away from tryin ta booty-call Tony again, dat a ranger would come, or a helicopter, or tha rescue crew; they always came up in time on his TV programs, tha playas was saved. On TV tha rangers n' tha SWAT squad n' tha paramedics was a gangbangin' thugged-out white force counterbalancin tha trippin evil dat he perceived up in tha ghetto; when playas gots up in shiznit they was helped outta it, they was fixed up. They did not gotta help theyselves outta shit.

(Please?)

There was no answer.

No answer, n' if Tony came would it be tha same nightmare, biatch? Da booming, tha Tioarse n' petulant voice, tha blueblack rug like snakes, biatch? Redrum?

But what tha fuck else?

(Please oh please)

No answer.

With a tremblin sigh, he looked all up in tha clockface. Cogs turned n' meshed wit other cogs. Da balizzle wheel rocked hypnotically back n' forth fo' realz. And if you held yo' head perfectly still, you could peep tha minute hand creepin inexorably down from XII ta V. If you held yo' bead perfectly still you could peep that-

Da clockface was gone. In its place was a round black hole. Well shiiiit, it hustled down tha fuck into forever n' shit. Well shiiiit, it fuckin started ta swell. Da clock was gone. Da room behind dat shit. Danny tottered n' then fell tha fuck into tha darknizz dat had been bidin behind tha clockface all along.

Da lil' small-ass pimp up in tha chair suddenly collapsed n' lay up in it at a cold-ass lil crooked unnatural angle, his head thrown back, his wild lil' fuckin eyes starin sightlessly all up in tha high ballroom ceiling.

Down n' down n' down n' down to-

The hallway, crouched up in tha hallway, n' dat schmoooove muthafucka had done cooked up a wack turn, tryin ta git back ta tha stairs dat schmoooove muthafucka had done cooked up a wack turn n' now AND NOW-

He saw da thug was up in tha short dead-end corridor dat hustled only ta tha Presidential Suite n' tha boomin sound was comin closer, tha roque mallet whistlin savagely all up in tha air, tha head of it embeddin itself tha fuck into tha wall, cuttin tha silk paper, lettin up lil' small-ass puffz of plasta dust.

(Goddammit, come up here biaaatch! Take your)

But there was another git into in tha hallway. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Slouched nonchalantly against tha wall just behind his muthafuckin ass. Like a pimp.

Fuck dat shit, not a pimp yo, but all dressed up in white. Dressed up in whites.

(I'll find you, you goddam lil whoremasterin RUNT!)

Danny cringed back from tha sound. Comin up tha main third-floor hall now, nahmeean, biatch? Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Soon tha balla of dat voice would round tha corner.

(Come here biaaatch! Come here, you lil shit!)

Da figure dressed up in white straightened up a lil, removed a cold-ass lil blunt from tha corner of his crazy-ass grill, n' plucked a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shred of bluntz from his wild lil' full lower lip. Dat shiznit was Hallorann, Danny saw. Dressed up in his cook's whites instead of tha blue suit dat schmoooove muthafucka had been bustin on closin day.

"If there is shit," Hallorann holla'd, "you give a cold-ass lil call fo' realz. A big-ass bangin holla like tha one dat knocked mah crazy ass back all dem minutes ago. I might hear you even way down up in Florida fo' realz. And if I do, I'll come on tha run. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I'll come on tha run. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I'll come on the-"

(Come now, then! Come now, come NOW! Oh Dick I need you we all need)

"-run. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Sorry yo, but I gots ta run. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Sorry, Danny ole kid ole doc yo, but I gots ta run. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. It's shizzle been fun, you lil hustla of a glock yo, but I gots ta hurry, I gots ta run."

(No!)

But as he peeped it, Dick Hallorann turned, put his blunt back tha fuck into tha corner of his crazy-ass grill, n' stepped nonchalantly all up in tha wall.

Leavin his ass ridin' solo.

And dat was when tha shadow-figure turned tha corner, big-ass up in tha hallway's gloom, only tha reflected red of its eyes clear.

(There yo ass is biaaatch! Now I've gots you, you fuck! Now I'll teach you, nahmean biiiatch?)

It lurched toward his ass up in a horrible, shamblin run, tha roque mallet swingin up n' up n' up. Danny scrambled backward, screaming, n' suddenly da thug was all up in tha wall n' falling, tumblin over n' over, down tha hole, down tha rabbit hole n' tha fuck into a land full of sick wonders.

Tony was far below him, also falling.

(I can't come no mo', Danny... da thug won't let me near you, biatch... none of dem will let me near you, biatch... git Dick... git Dick...)

"Tony!" da perved-out muthafucka screamed.

But Tony was gone n' suddenly da thug was up in a thugged-out dark room. But not entirely dark. Muted light spillin from somewhere, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. Dat shiznit was Mommy n' Daddy's bedroom yo. Dude could peep Daddy's desk. But tha room was a thugged-out dreadful shamblez yo. Dude had been up in dis room before. Mommy's record playa overturned on tha floor yo. Her recordz scattered on tha rug. Da mattress half off tha bed. Pictures ripped from tha walls yo. His cot lyin on its side like a thugged-out dead dog, tha Violent Violet Volkswagen crushed ta purple shardz of plastic.

Da light was comin from tha bathroom door, half-open. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Just beyond it a hand dangled limply, blood drippin from tha tipz of tha fingers fo' realz. And up in tha medicine cabinet mirror, tha word REDRUM flashin off n' on.

Suddenly a big-ass clock up in a glass bowl materialized up in front of dat shit. There was no handz or numbers on tha clockface, only a thugged-out date freestyled up in red: DECEMBER 2 fo' realz. And then, eyes widenin up in horror, da perved-out muthafucka saw tha word REDRUM reflectin dimly from tha glass dome, now reflected twice fo' realz. And da perved-out muthafucka saw dat it spelled MURDER.

Danny Torrizzle screamed up in wretched terror. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Da date was gone from tha clockface. Da clockface itself was gone, replaced by a cold-ass lil circular black hole dat swelled n' swelled like a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dilatin iris. Well shiiiit, it blotted up every last muthafuckin thang n' he fell tha fuck forward, beginnin ta fall, falling, da thug was-

�C fallin off tha chair.

For a moment he lay on tha ballroom floor, breathang bard.

REDRUM.

MURDER.

REDRUM.

MURDER.

(Da Red Dirtnap held sway over all!)

(Unmask! Unmask!)

And behind each glitterin ghettofab mask, tha as-yet unseen grill of tha shape dat chased his ass down these dark hallways, its red eyes widening, blank n' homicidal.

Oh, da thug was afraid of what tha fuck grill might come ta light when tha time fo' unmaskin came round at last.

(DICK!)

he screamed wit all his crazy-ass might yo. His head seemed ta shiver wit tha force of dat shit.

(!!! OH DICK OH PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE COME!!!)

Above his ass tha clock dat schmoooove muthafucka had wound wit tha silver key continued ta mark off tha secondz n' minutes n' hours.

Chapta 38. Florida
Mra. Hallorann's third son, Dick, dressed up in his cook's whites, a Lucky Strike parked up in tha corner of his crazy-ass grill, backed his bangin reclaimed Cadillac limo outta its space behind tha One-A Wholesale Vegetable Mart n' drove slowly round tha building. Masterton, part balla now but still struttin wit tha patented shuffle dat schmoooove muthafucka had adopted back before Ghetto Battle Pt II, was pushin a funky-ass bin of lettuces tha fuck into tha high, dark building.

Hallorann pushed tha button dat lowered tha passenger side window n' hollered: "Those avocadoes is too damn high, you skankyskate!"

Masterton looked back over his shoulder, grinned widely enough ta expose all three gold teeth, n' yelled back, "And I know exactly where you can put em, mah phat dawg."

"Remarks like dat I keep track of, bro."

Masterton gave his ass tha finger n' shiznit yo. Hallorann returned tha compliment.

"Git yo' cukes, did yo slick ass?" Masterton asked.

"I done did."

"Yo ass come back early tomorrow, I gonna hit you wit a shitload of tha sickst freshly smoked up potatoes you eva seen."

"I bust tha boy," Hallorann holla'd. "Yo ass comin up tonight?"

"Yo ass supplyin tha juice, bro?"

"That's a funky-ass big-ass ten-four."

"I be there, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. Yo ass keep dat thang off tha top end goin home, you hear me son, biatch? Every cop between here a St. Pete knows yo' name."

"Yo ass know all bout it, huh?" Hallorann asked, grinning.

"I know mo' than you'll eva learn, mah man."

"Listen ta dis sassy nizzle n' shit. Would you listen?"

"Go on, git outta here fore I start throwin these lettuces."

"Go on a throw em. I'll take anythang fo' free."

Masterton made as if ta throw one yo. Hallorann ducked, rolled up tha window, n' drove on. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude was feelin fine. For tha last half minute or so dat schmoooove muthafucka had been smellin oranges yo, but da ruffneck didn't find dat queer n' shit. For tha last half minute dat schmoooove muthafucka had been up in a gangbangin' fruit n' vegetable market.

Dat shiznit was 4:30 p. m., EST, tha straight-up original gangsta dizzle of December, Oldskool Man Winta settlin his wild lil' frostbitten rump firmly onto most of tha ghetto yo, but down here tha pimps wore open-throated shortsleeve shirts n' tha dem hoes was up in light summer dresses n' shorts, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. On top of tha First Bank of Florida building, a gangbangin' finger-lickin' digital thermometa bordered wit big-ass grapefruits was flashin 79 over n' over n' shit. Thank Dogg fo' Florida, Hallorann thought, mosquitoes n' all.

In tha back of tha limo was two dozen avocados, a cold-ass lil crate of cucumbers, ditto oranges, ditto grapefruit. Three hustlin sacks filled wit Bermuda onions, tha dopeest vegetable a gangbangin Dogg eva pimped, some pretty phat dope peas, which would be served wit tha entree n' come back uneaten nine times outta ten, n' a single blue Hubbard squash dat was strictly fo' underground consumption.

Hallorann stopped up in tha turn lane all up in tha Vermont Street light, n' when tha chronic arrow flossed he pulled up onto state highway 219, pushin up ta forty n' holdin it there until tha hood fuckin started ta trickle away tha fuck into a exurban sprawl of gas stations, Burger Mackdaddys, n' McDonalds. Dat shiznit was a lil' small-ass order todizzle, his schmoooove ass could have busted Baedecker afta it yo, but Baedecker had been chafin fo' his chizzle ta loot tha meat, n' besides, Hallorann never missed a cold-ass lil chizzle ta bang it back n' forth wit Frank Masterton if his schmoooove ass could help dat shit. Masterton might show up tonight ta peep some TV n' drank Hallorann's Bushmill's, or he might not. Either way was all right. But seein his ass mattered. Every time it mattered now, cuz they weren't lil' no mo'. In tha last few minutes it seemed da thug was thankin of dat straight-up fact a pimped out deal. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack. Not so lil' no mo', when you gots up near sixty muthafuckin years oldschool (ortell tha real deal n' save a lie-past it) you had ta start thankin bout steppin out. Yo ass could go anytime fo' realz. And dat had been on his crazy-ass mind dis week, not up in a heavy way but as a gangbangin' fact. Dyin was a part of living. Yo ass had ta keep tunin up in ta dat if you sposed ta fuckin be a whole person. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. And if tha fact of yo' own dirtnap was hard ta understand, at least it wasn't impossible ta accept.

Why dis should done been on his crazy-ass mind his schmoooove ass could not have holla'd yo, but his other reason fo' gettin dis lil' small-ass order his dirty ass was so his schmoooove ass could step upstairs ta tha lil' small-ass crib over Frank's Bar n' Grill. There was a lawyer up there now (the dentist whoz ass had been there last year had apparently gone broke), a lil' black fellow named McIver n' shiznit yo. Hallorann had stepped up in n' holla'd at dis McIver dat da thug wanted ta cook up a will, n' could McIver help his ass out, biatch? Well, McIver asked, how tha fuck soon do you want tha document, biatch? Yesterday, holla'd Hallorann, n' threw his head back n' laughed. Has you done gots anythang fucked up in mind, biatch? was McIver's next question. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Hallorann did not yo. Dude had his Cadillac, his bank account-some nine thousand dollars-a piddlin checkin account, n' a cold-ass lil closet of threadz yo. Dude wanted all dat shiznit ta git all up in his sista n' shiznit fo' realz. And if yo' sista predeceases yo slick ass, biatch? McIver asked. Never mind, Hallorann holla'd. If dat happens, I'll cook up a freshly smoked up will. Da document had been completed n' signed up in less than three hours-fast work fo' a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shyster-and now resided up in Hallorann's breast pocket, folded tha fuck into a stiff blue envelope wit tha word WILL on tha outside up in Oldskool Gangsta letters.

Dude could not have holla'd why dat schmoooove muthafucka had chosen dis warm sunny dizzle when he felt so well ta do suttin' dat schmoooove muthafucka had been puttin off fo' muthafuckin years yo, but tha impulse had come on his ass n' dat schmoooove muthafucka hadn't holla'd no yo. Dude was used ta followin his hunches.

Dude was pretty well outta hood now yo. Dude cranked tha limo up ta a illegal sixty n' let it ride there up in tha left-hand lane, suckin up most of tha Petersburgbound traffic yo. Dude knew from experience dat tha limo would still ride as solid as iron at ninety, n' even at a hundred n' twenty it didn't seem ta lighten up much. But his screamin minutes was long gone. Da thought of puttin tha limo up ta a hundred n' twenty on a straight stretch only scared his muthafuckin ass yo. Dude was gettin old.

(Jesus, dem oranges smell strong. Wonder if they gone over?)

Bugs splattered against tha window yo. Dude dialed tha radio ta a Miami ass station n' gots tha soft, beatboxin voice of Al Green.

"What a funky-ass dope time our crazy asses had together,

Now it's gettin late n' we must leave each other..."

Dude unrolled tha window, pitched his blunt booty out, then rolled it further down ta clear up tha smell of tha oranges yo. Dude tapped his wild lil' fingers against tha wheel n' hummed along under his breath yo. Hooked over tha rearview mirror, his St. Christopher's medal swung gently back n' forth.

And suddenly tha smell of oranges intensified n' he knew dat shiznit was coming, suttin' was comin at his muthafuckin ass yo. Dude saw his own eyes up in tha rearview, widening, surprised. And then it came all at once, came up in a big-ass blast dat drove up every last muthafuckin thang else: tha beatz, tha road ahead, his own absent awarenizz of his dirty ass as a unique human creature. Dat shiznit was as if one of mah thugs had put a psycho glock ta his head n' blasted his ass wit a. 45 caliber scream.

(!!! OH DICK OH PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE COME!!!)

Da limo had just drawn even wit a Pinto station wagon driven by a playa up in workman's clothes. Da workman saw tha limo driftin tha fuck into his fuckin lane n' laid on tha born, so check it before ya wreck it. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. When tha Cadillac continued ta drift da perved-out muthafucka snapped a peep tha driver n' saw a funky-ass big-ass black playa bolt upright behind tha wheel, his wild lil' fuckin eyes lookin vaguely upward. Lata tha workman holla'd at his hoe dat he knew dat shiznit was just one of dem nizzley hairdos they was all bustin these days yo, but all up in tha time it had looked just as if every last muthafuckin afro on dat coon's head was standin on end yo, but it ain't no stoppin cause I be still poppin' yo. Dude thought tha black playa was havin a ass attack.

Da workman braked hard, droppin back tha fuck into a luckilyempty space behind his muthafuckin ass. Da rear end of tha Cadillac pulled ahead of him, still cuttin in, n' tha workman stared wit bemused horror as tha long, rocket-shaped rear taillights cut tha fuck into his fuckin lane no mo' than a quarta of a inch up in front of his bumper.

Da workman cut ta tha left, still layin on his horn, n' roared round tha fadedenly weavin limousine yo. Dude invited tha driver of tha limo ta big-ass up a illegal sex act on his dirty ass. To engage up in oral congress wit various rodents n' birdz yo. Dude articulated his own proposal dat all peepz of blood return ta they natizzle continent yo. Dude expressed his sincere belief up in tha posizzle tha limo-driver's ass would occupy up in tha afterlife yo. Dude finished by sayin dat his thugged-out lil' punk-ass believed be had kicked it wit tha limo-driver's mutha up in a New Orleans doggy den of prostitution.

Then da thug was ahead n' outta dark shiznit n' suddenly aware dat dat schmoooove muthafucka had wet his thugged-out lil' pants.

In Hallorann's mind tha thought kept repeating

(COME DICK PLEASE COME DICK PLEASE)

but it fuckin started ta fade off tha way a radio station will as you approach tha limitz of its broadcastin area yo. Dude became fuzzily aware dat his hoopty was toolin along tha soft shoulder at betta than fifty milez a hour yo. Dude guided it back onto tha road, feelin tha rear end fishtail fo' a moment before regainin tha composizzle surface.

There was a A/W Rootbeer stand just ahead. Hallorann signaled n' turned in, his thugged-out ass thuddin painfully up in his chest, his wild lil' grill a sickly gray color yo. Dude pulled tha fuck into a parkin slot, took his handkerchizzle outta his thugged-out lil' pocket, n' mopped his wild lil' forehead wit dat shit.

(Lord God!)

"May I help yo slick ass?"

Da voice startled his ass again, even though it wasn't tha voice of Dogg but dat of a thugged-out lil carhop, standin by his open window wit a order pad.

"Yeah, baby, a rootbeer float. Two scoopz of vanilla, aiiight?"

"Yes, sir." Biatch strutted away, hips rollin sickly beneath her red nylon uniform.

Hallorann leaned back against tha leather seat n' closed his wild lil' fuckin eyes. There was not a god damn thang left ta pick up. Da last of it had faded up between pullin up in here n' givin tha waitress his order n' shiznit fo' realz. All dat was left was a sick, thuddin headache, as if his dome had been twisted n' wrung up n' bung up ta dry. Like tha headache he'd gotten from lettin dat pimp Danny shine at his ass up there at Ullman's Folly.

But dis had been much louder n' shit. Then tha pimp had only been playin a game wit his muthafuckin ass. This had been pure panic, each word screamed aloud up in his bead.

Dude looked down at his thugged-out arms yo. Hot sunshine lay on dem but they had still goosebumped. Dude had holla'd all up in tha pimp ta booty-call his ass if he needed help, he remembered dis shiznit fo' realz. And now tha pimp was calling.

Dude suddenly wondered how tha fuck his schmoooove ass could have left dat pimp up there at all, shinin tha way da ruffneck done did. There was bound ta be shit, maybe shitty shit.

Dude suddenly keyed tha limo, put it up in reverse, n' pulled back onto tha highway, peelin rubber n' shit. Da waitress wit tha rollin hips stood up in tha A/W stand's archway, a tray wit a rootbeer float on it up in her hands.

"What tha fuck iz it wit you, a gangbangin' fire?" her big-ass booty shouted yo, but Hallorann was gone.

Da manager was a playa named Queems, n' when Hallorann came up in Queems was conversin wit his bookie yo. Dude wanted tha four-horse at Rockaway. Fuck dat shit, no parlay, no quinella, no exacta, no goddam futura. Just tha lil oldschool four, six hundred dollars on tha nozzle fo' realz. And tha Jets on Sunday. It make me wanna hollar playa! What did he mean, tha Jets was playin tha Bizzles, biatch? Didn't he know whoz ass tha Jets was playing, biatch? Five hundred, seven-point spread. When Queems hung up, lookin put-out, Hallorann understood how tha fuck a playa could make fifty grand a year hustlin dis lil spa n' still wear suits wit shiny seats yo. Dude regarded Hallorann wit a eye dat was still bloodshot from a fuckin shitload of glances tha fuck into last night's bourbon bottle.

"Problems, Dick?"

"Yes, sir, Mista Muthafuckin Queems, I guess so. I need three minutes off."

There was a package of Kents up in tha breast pocket of Queems's sheer yellow shirt yo. Dude reached one outta tha pocket without removin tha pack, tweezin it out, n' bit down morosely on tha patented Micronite filter n' shiznit yo. Dude lit it wit his fuckin lil' desktop Cricket.

"So do I," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. "But what's on yo' mind?"

"I need three days," Hallorann repeated. This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. "It's mah boy."

Queems's eyes dropped ta Hallorann's left hand, which was ringless.

"I been divorced since 1964," Hallorann holla'd patiently.

"Dick, you know what tha fuck tha weekend thang is. We're full. To tha gunnels. Even tha skanky seats, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. We're even filled up in tha Florida Room on Sundizzle night. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So take mah peep it, mah wallet, mah pension fund. Hell, you can even take mah hoe if you can stand tha sharp edges. But please don't ask me fo' time off. What tha fuck iz he, sick?"

"Yes, sir," Hallorann holla'd, still tryin ta visualize his dirty ass twistin a cold-ass lil skanky cloth basebizzle cap n' rollin his wild lil' fuckin eyeballs. "Dude shot."

"Shot!" Queems holla'd. Dude put his Kent down up in a ashtray which bore tha emblem of Ole Miss, of which da thug was a funky-ass bidnizz admin graduate.

"Yes, sir," Hallorann holla'd somberly.

"Huntin accident?"

"Fuck dat shit, sir," Hallorann holla'd, n' let his voice drop ta a lower, huskier note. "Jana, she's been livin wit dis truck driver n' shiznit fo' realz. A white man. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude blasted mah pimp yo. He's up in a hospitizzle up in Denver, Colorado. Critical condition."

"How tha fuck up in hell did you smoke up, biatch? I thought you was buyin vegetables."

"Yes, sir, I was." Dude had stopped all up in tha Westside Union crib just before comin here ta reserve a Avis hoopty at Stapleton Airport. Before leavin dat schmoooove muthafucka had swiped a Westside Union flimsy. Now tha pimpin' muthafucka took tha folded n' crumpled blank form from his thugged-out lil' pocket n' flashed it before Queems's bloodshot eyes yo. Dude put it back up in his thugged-out lil' pocket and, allowin his voice ta drop another notch, holla'd: "Jana busted dat shit. Dat shiznit was waitin up in mah letterbox when I gots back just now, nahmeean?"

"Jesus. Jizzy Christ," Queems holla'd. There was a peculiar tight expression of concern on his wild lil' face, one Hallorann was familiar with. Dat shiznit was as close ta a expression of sympathy as a white playa whoz ass thought of his dirty ass as "phat wit tha coloreds" could git when tha object was a funky-ass black playa or his crazy-ass mythical black son.

"Yeah, aiiight, you git going," Queems holla'd. "Baedecker can take over fo' three days, I guess. Da potboy can help out."

Hallorann nodded, lettin his wild lil' grill git longer still yo, but tha thought of tha potboy helpin up Baedecker made his ass grin inside. Even on a phat dizzle Hallorann doubted if tha potboy could hit tha urinal on tha straight-up original gangsta squirt.

"I wanna rebate back dis week's pay," Hallorann holla'd. "Da whole thang. I know what tha fuck a funky-ass bind dis puttin you in, Mista Muthafuckin Queems, sir."

Queems's expression gots tighta still it looked as if he might gotz a gangbangin' fishbone caught up in his cold-ass throat. "We can rap bout dat later n' shit. Yo ass go on n' pack. I'll rap ta Baedecker n' shit. Want me ta make you a plane reservation?"

"Fuck dat shit, sir, I'll do dat shit."

"All right." Queems stood up, leaned sincerely forward, n' inhaled a raft of ascendin smoke from his Kent yo. Dude coughed heartily, his cold-ass thin white grill turnin red. Hallorann struggled hard ta keep his somber expression. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. "I hope every last muthafuckin thang turns out, Dick. Call when you git word."

"I'll do that."

They shook handz over tha desk.

Hallorann made his dirty ass git down ta tha ground floor n' across ta tha hired help's compound before burstin tha fuck into rich, bead-bobbin laughter n' shiznit yo. Dude was still grinnin n' moppin his streamin eyes wit his handkerchizzle when tha smell of oranges came, thick n' gagging, n' tha bolt followed it, strikin his ass up in tha head, bustin his ass back against tha pink stucco wall up in a thugged-out fadeden stagger.

(!!! PLEASE COME DICK PLEASE COME COME QUICK!!!)

Dude recovered a lil at a time n' at last felt capable of climbin tha outside stairs ta his crib yo. Dude kept tha latchkey under tha rush-plaited doormat, n' when he reached down ta git it, suttin' fell tha fuck outta his crazy-ass muthafuckin inner pocket n' fell tha fuck ta tha second-floor deckin wit a gangbangin' flat thump yo. His mind was still so much on tha voice dat had shivered all up in his head dat fo' a moment his schmoooove ass could only peep tha blue envelope blankly, not knowin what tha fuck it was.

Then tha pimpin' muthafucka turned it over n' tha word WILL stared up at his ass up in tha black spidery letters.

(Oh mah Dogg is it like that?)

Dude didn't know. But it could be fo' realz. All week long tha thought of his own endin had been on his crazy-ass mind like a... well, like a

(Go on, say it)

like a premonition,.

Death, biatch? For a moment his whole game seemed ta flash before him, not up in a oldschool sense, no topography of tha ups n' downs dat Mrs yo. Hallorann's third son, Dick, had lived all up in yo, but his wild lil' freakadelic game as dat shiznit was now, nahmeean, biatch? Martin Luther Mackdaddy had holla'd at dem not long before tha cap took his ass down ta his crazy-ass martyr's grave dat dat schmoooove muthafucka had been ta tha mountain. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Dick could not claim dis shit. No mountain yo, but dat schmoooove muthafucka had reached a sunny plateau afta muthafuckin yearz of struggle yo. Dude had phat playaz yo. Dude had all tha references da thug would eva need ta git a thang anywhere, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. When da thug wanted fuck, why, his schmoooove ass could find a gangbangin' thugged-out one wit no thangs axed n' no big-ass shitty struggle bout what tha fuck all dat shiznit meant yo. Dude had come ta terms wit his blackness-aiiight terms yo. Dude was up past sixty n' give props ta God, da thug was cruising.

Was he goin ta chizzle tha end of that-the end of him-for three peckerwoodz da ruffneck didn't even know?

But dat was a lie, wasn't it?

Dude knew tha boy. They had shared each other tha way phat playaz can't even afta forty muthafuckin yearz of it yo. Dude knew tha pimp n' tha pimp knew him, cuz they each had a kind of searchlight up in they heads, suttin' they hadn't axed for, suttin' dat had just been given.

(Naw, you gots a gangbangin' flashlight, tha pimpin' muthafucka tha one wit tha searchlight.)

And sometimes dat light, dat shine, seemed like a pimpin' sick thang. Yo ass could pick tha horses, or like tha pimp had holla'd, you could rap r daddy where his cold-ass trunk was when it turned up missing. But dat was only dressing, tha sauce on tha salad, n' down below there was as much bitta vetch up in dat salad as there was def cucumber n' shit. Yo ass could taste pain n' dirtnap n' tears fo' realz. And now tha pimp was stuck up in dat place, n' da thug would go. For tha boy. Because, bustin lyrics ta tha boy, they had only been different flavas when they used they grills. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So da thug would go yo. Dude would do what tha fuck his schmoooove ass could, cuz if da ruffneck didn't, tha pimp was goin ta take a thugged-out dirtnap right inside his head.

But cuz da thug was human his schmoooove ass could not help a funky-ass bitta wish dat tha cup had never been passed his way.

(Bitch had started ta git up n' come afta his muthafuckin ass.)

Dude had been dumpin a cold-ass lil chizzle of threadz tha fuck into a overnight bag when tha thought came ta him, freezin his ass wit tha juice of tha memory as it always did when tha pimpin' muthafucka thought of it yo. Dude tried ta be thinkin of it as seldom as possible.

Da maid, Delores Vickery her name was, had been hysterical. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack yo. Had holla'd some thangs ta tha other chambermaids, n' worse still, ta a shitload of tha guests, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. When tha word gots back ta Ullman, as tha wack-ass quiff should have known it would do, dat schmoooove muthafucka had fired her outta hand. Biatch had come ta Hallorann up in tears, not bout bein fired yo, but bout tha thang dat freaky freaky biatch had peeped up in dat second-floor room. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch had gone tha fuck into 217 ta chizzle tha towels, her big-ass booty holla'd, n' there had been dat Mrs. Massey, lyin dead up in tha tub. That, of course, was impossible. Mrs. Massey had been discreetly taken away tha dizzle before n' was even then wingin her way back ta New York-in tha shippin hold instead of tha straight-up original gangsta class she'd been accustomed to.

Hallorann hadn't was horny bout Delores much yo, but dat schmoooove muthafucka had gone up ta look dat evening. Da maid was a olive-complected hoe of twenty-three whoz ass waited table near tha end of tha season when thangs slowed down. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch had a lil' small-ass shining, Hallorann judged, straight-up not mo' than a twinkle; a mousy-lookin playa n' his wild lil' fuckin escort, bustin a gangbangin' faded cloth coat, would come up in fo' dinner n' Delores would trade one of her tablez fo' theirs. Da mousy lil playa would leave a picture of Alexander Hamilton under his thugged-out lil' plate, shitty enough fo' tha hoe whoz ass had made tha trade yo, but worse, Delores would crow over dat shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch was lazy, a goof-off up in a operation run by a playa whoz ass allowed no goof-offs. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch would sit up in a linen closet, readin a cold-ass lil confession magazine n' tokin yo, but whenever Ullman went on one of his unscheduled prowls (and woe ta tha hoe his schmoooove ass caught restin her feet) he found her hustlin industriously, her magazine hidden under tha sheets on a high shelf, her ashtray tucked safely tha fuck into her uniform pocket. Yeah, Hallorann thought, she'd been a goof-off n' a sloven n' tha other hoes had resented her yo, but Delores had had dat lil twinkle. Well shiiiit, it had always greased tha slil playas fo' her n' shit. But what tha fuck dat freaky freaky biatch had peeped up in 217 had scared her badly enough so dat biiiiatch was mo' than glad ta pick up tha struttin papers Ullman had issued her n' go.

Why had dat thugged-out biiiatch come ta him, biatch? A shine knows a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shine, Hallorann thought, grinnin all up in tha pun.

So dat schmoooove muthafucka had gone up dat night n' shitty let his dirty ass tha fuck into tha room, which was ta be reoccupied tha next day. It make me wanna hollar playa! Dude had used tha crib passkey ta git in, n' if Ullman had caught his ass wit dat key, da thug would have joined Delores Vickery on tha unemployment line.

Da shower curtain round tha tub had been drawn. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude had pushed it back yo, but even before da ruffneck did he'd had a premonizzle of what tha fuck da thug was goin ta see. Mrs. Massey, swollen n' purple, lay soggily up in tha tub, which was half-full of gin n juice n' shiznit yo. Dude had stood looking. down at her, a pulse whoopin thickly up in his cold-ass throat. There had been other thangs all up in tha Overlook: a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shitty-ass trip dat recurred at irregular intervals-some sort of costume jam n' da thug was caterin it up in tha Overlook's ballroom n' all up in tha shout ta unmask, dem hoes exposed faces dat was dem of rottin insects-and there had been tha hedge muthafuckas. Twice, maybe three times, dat schmoooove muthafucka had (or thought dat schmoooove muthafucka had) peeped dem move, eva so slightly. That dawg would seem ta chizzle from his chillin-up posture ta a slightly crouched one, n' tha lions seemed ta move forward, as if menacin tha lil tykes on tha playground. Last year up in May Ullman had busted his ass up ta tha attic ta look fo' tha ornate set of firetools dat now stood beside tha lobby fireplace. While dat schmoooove muthafucka had been up there tha three lightbulbs strung overhead had gone up n' dat schmoooove muthafucka had lost his way back ta tha trapdoor yo. Dude had stumbled round fo' a unknown length of time, closer n' closer ta panic, barkin his shins on boxes n' bumpin tha fuck into thangs, wit a stronger n' stronger feelin dat suttin' was stalkin his ass up in tha dark. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Some pimped out n' frightenin creature dat had just oozed outta tha woodwork when tha lights went up fo' realz. And when dat schmoooove muthafucka had literally stumbled over tha trapdoor's ringbolt dat schmoooove muthafucka had hurried down as fast as his schmoooove ass could, leavin tha trap open, sooty n' disheveled, wit a gangbangin' feelin of disasta barely averted. This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. Lata Ullman had come down ta tha kitchen personally, ta inform his ass dat schmoooove muthafucka had left tha attic trapdoor open n' tha lights burnin up there, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. Did Hallorann be thinkin tha guests wanted ta go up there n' play treasure hunt, biatch? Did tha pimpin' muthafucka be thinkin electricitizzle was free?

And da perved-out muthafucka suspected-no, was nearly positive-that nuff muthafuckin of tha guests had peeped or heard thangs. like a muthafucka. In tha three muthafuckin years dat schmoooove muthafucka had been there, tha Presidential Suite had been booked nineteen times. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Six of tha guests whoz ass had put up there had left tha hotel early, a shitload of dem lookin markedly ill. Other guests had left other rooms wit tha same abruptness. One night up in August of 1974, near dusk, a playa whoz ass had won tha Bronze n' Silver Stars up in Korea (that playa now sat on tha boardz of three major corporations n' was holla'd ta have personally pink-slipped a gangbangin' hyped TV shizzle anchorman) unaccountably went tha fuck into a gangbangin' fit of beatboxin hysterics on tha puttin green. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. And there had been dozenz of lil pimps durin Hallorann's association wit tha Overlook whoz ass simply refused ta go tha fuck into tha playground. One lil pimp had had a cold-ass lil convulsion while playin up in tha concrete rings yo, but Hallorann didn't know if dat could be attributed ta tha Overlook's deadly siren cold lil' woo wop or not-word had gone round among tha help dat tha child, tha only daughta of a thugged-out porno hustla, was a medicinally controlled epileptic whoz ass had simply forgotten her medicine dat day.

And so, starin down all up in tha corpse of Mrs. Massey, dat schmoooove muthafucka had been frightened but not straight-up terrified. Dat shiznit was not straight-up unexpected. This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. Terror came when she opened her eyes ta disclose blank silver pupils n' fuckin started ta grin at his muthafuckin ass yo. Horror came when

(she had started ta git up n' come afta his muthafuckin ass.)

Dude had fled, ass racing, n' had not felt safe even wit tha door shut n' locked behind his muthafuckin ass. In fact, he admitted ta his dirty ass now as he zipped tha fiightbag shut, dat schmoooove muthafucka had never felt safe anywhere up in tha Overlook again.

And now tha boy-calling, beatboxin fo' help.

Dude looked at his watch. Dat shiznit was 5:30 P. m yo. Dude went ta tha crib's door, remembered it would be heavy winta now up in Colorado, especially up in tha mountains, n' went back ta his closet yo. Dude pulled his fuckin long, sheepskin-lined overcoat outta its polyurethane dry-cleanin bag n' put it over his thugged-out arm. Dat shiznit was tha only winta garment he owned. Dude turned off all tha lights n' looked around. Had he forgotten anything, biatch? Yes yes y'all. One thang yo. Dude took tha will outta his breast pocket n' slipped it tha fuck into tha margin of tha dressin table mirror. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. With luck da thug would be back ta git dat shit.

Sure, wit luck.

Dude left tha crib, locked tha door behind him, put tha key under tha rush mat, n' ran down tha outside steps ta his converted Cadillac.

Halfway ta Miami International, comfortably away from tha switchboard where Queems or Queems's toadies was known ta listen in, Hallorann stopped at a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass hustlin centa Laundromat n' called United Air Lines. Flights ta Denver?

There was one due up at 6:36 P. m. Could tha gentleman make that?

Hallorann looked at his thugged-out lil' peep it, which flossed 6:02, n' holla'd his schmoooove ass could. What bout vacancies on tha flight?

Just let me check.

A clunkin sound up in his wild lil' fuckin ear followed by saccharine Montavani, which was supposed ta make bein on bold mo' pleasant. Well shiiiit, it didn't yo. Hallorann danced from one foot ta tha other, alternatin glances between his thugged-out lil' peep n' a lil' hoe wit a chillin baby, up in a hammock on her back unloadin a cold-ass lil coin-op Maytag. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch was afraid dat biiiiatch was goin ta git home lata than she planned n' tha roast would burn n' her homeboy-Mark, biatch? Mike, biatch? Matt?-would be mad.

A minute passed. Two yo. Dude had just bout made up his crazy-ass mind ta drive ahead n' take his chances when tha cannedsoundin voice of tha flight reservations clerk came back on. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. There was a empty seat, a cold-ass lil cancellation. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Dat shiznit was up in first class. Did dat make any difference?

No yo. Dude wanted dat shit.

Would dat be chedda or credit card?

Cash, baby, chedda. I've gots ta fly.

And tha name was-?

Hallorann, two l's, two n's. Catch you later.

Dude hung up n' hurried toward tha door. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Da girl's simple thought, worry fo' tha roast, broadcast at his ass over n' over until be thought da thug would go mad. Sometimes dat shiznit was like that, fo' no reason at all you would catch a thought, straight-up isolated, straight-up pure n' clear... n' probably straight-up useless.

Dude almost made dat shit.

Dude had tha limo cranked up ta eighty n' tha airport was straight-up up in sight when one of Florida's Finest pulled his ass over.

Hallorann unrolled tha electric window n' opened his crazy-ass grill all up in tha cop, whoz ass was flippin up pages up in his citation book.

"I know," tha cop holla'd comfortingly. "It's a gangbangin' funeral up in Cleveland. Yo crazy-ass daddy n' shit. It's a weddin up in Seattle. Yo crazy-ass sister.

A fire up in San Jose dat wiped up yo' gramp's candy store. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Some straight-up fine Cambodian Red just waitin up in a terminal locker up in New York City. I gots a straight-up boner fo' dis piece of road just outside tha airport. Even as a kid, rap minute was mah straight-up part of school."

"Listen, fool, mah lil hustla is-"

"Da only part of tha rap I can never git into until tha end," tha fool holla'd, findin tha right page up in his citation book, "is tha driver's-license number of tha offendin motorist/storytella n' his bangin registration shiznitSo be a sick muthafucka. Let me peek."

Hallorann looked tha fuck into tha cop's calm blue eyes, debated spittin some lyrics ta his crazy-ass my-son-isin-critical-condizzle rap anyway, n' decided dat would make thangs worse. This Smokey was no Queems yo. Dude dug up his wallet.

"Wonderful," tha cop holla'd. "Would you take dem up fo' me, please, biatch? I just gotta peep how tha fuck it's all goin ta come up in tha end."

Silently, Hallorann took up his fuckin lil' driver's license n' his Florida registration n' gave dem ta tha traffic cop.

"That's straight-up good. I be fly as a gangbangin' falcon, soarin all up in tha sky dawwwwg! That's so phat you win a present."

"What?" Hallorann axed hopefully.

"When I finish freestylin down these numbers, I'm goin ta let you blow up a lil balloon fo' mah dirty ass."

"Oh, Jeeeesus!" Hallorann moaned. "Officer, mah flight-"

"Shhhh," tha traffic cop holla'd. "Don't be naughty."

Hallorann closed his wild lil' fuckin eyes.

Dude gots ta tha United desk at 6:49, hopin against hope dat tha flight had been delayed. Dude didn't even gotta ask. Da departure monitor over tha incomin passengers desk holla'd all up in tha story. Flight 901 fo' Denver, due up at 6:36 EST, had left at 6:40. Nine minutes before.

"Oh shit," Dick Hallorann holla'd.

And suddenly tha smell of oranges, heavy n' cloying, dat schmoooove muthafucka had just time ta reach tha men's room before it came, deafening, terrified:

(!!! COME PLEASE COME DICK PLEASE PLEASE COME!!!)

Chapta 39. On tha Stairs
One of tha thangs they had sold ta swell they liquid assets a lil before movin from Vermont ta Colorado was Jack's collection of two hundred oldschool rock 'n' roll n' r amp; b mixtapes; they had gone all up in tha yard sale fo' a thugged-out dollar apiece. One of these mixtapes, Danny's underground favorite, had been a Eddie Cochran double-record set wit four pagez of bound-in liner notes by Lenny Kaye. Wendy had often been struck by Danny's fascination fo' dis one particular mixtape by a manboy whoz ass had lived fast n' took a dirt nap young... had died, up in fact, when dat freaky freaky biatch her muthafuckin ass had only been ten muthafuckin years old.

Now, at quarta past seven (mountain time), as Dick Hallorann was spittin some lyrics ta Queems bout his wild lil' fuckin ex-wife's white boyfriend, dat thugged-out biiiatch came upon Danny chillin halfway up tha stairs between tha lobby n' tha straight-up original gangsta floor, tossin a red rubber bizzle from hand ta crew n' rappin one of tha joints from dat mixtape yo. His voice was low n' tuneless.

"So I climb one-two flight three flight four," Danny sang, "five flight six flight seven flight more... when I git ta tha top, I'm too chillaxed ta rock..."

Bitch came round him, sat down on one of tha stair risers, n' saw dat his fuckin lower lip had swelled ta twice its size n' dat there was dried blood on his chin. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Her ass took a gangbangin' frightened leap up in her chest yo, but she managed ta drop a rhyme neutrally.

"What happened, doc?" she asked, although dat biiiiatch was shizzle she knew. Jack had hit his muthafuckin ass. Well, of course. That came next, didn't it, biatch? Da wheelz of progress; sooner or lata they took you back ta where you started from.

"I called Tony," Danny holla'd. "In tha ballroom. I guess I fell tha git tha fuck outta mah grill wit dat bullshit tha chair. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Well shiiiit, it don't hurt no mo'. Just feels... like mah lip's too big."

"Is dat what tha fuck straight-up happened?" she asked, lookin at him, shitd.

"Daddy didn't do it," he answered. "Not todizzle."

Bitch gazed at him, feelin eerie. Da bizzle traveled from one crew ta tha other n' shiznit yo. Dude had read her mind. Her lil hustla had read her mind.

"What... what tha fuck did Tony rap, Danny?"

"It don't matter." His grill was calm, his voice chillingly indifferent.

"Danny-" Biatch gripped his shoulder, harder than dat freaky freaky biatch had intended. But da ruffneck didn't wince, or even try ta shake her off.

(Oh we is wreckin dis boy. It's not just Jack, it's me too, n' maybe it's not even just us, Jack's father, mah mother, is they here too, biatch? Sure, why not, biatch? Da place is lousy wit pimps anyway, why not a cold-ass lil couple more, biatch? Oh Lord up in heaven he's like one of dem suitcases they show on TV, run over, dropped from planes, goin all up in factory crushers. Or a Timex watch. Takes a lickin n' keeps on ticking. Oh Danny I'm so sorry)

"It don't matter," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da bizzle went from hand ta hand. "Tony can't come no mo'. They won't let his muthafuckin ass yo. He's licked."

"Dum diddy-dum, here I come biaaatch! Who tha fuck won't?"

"Da playas up in tha hotel," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. Dude looked at her then, n' his wild lil' fuckin eyes weren't indifferent at all. They was deep n' trippin like a muthafucka. "And the... tha thangs up in tha hotel. There's all kindz of dem wild-ass muthafuckas. Da hotel is stuffed wit dem wild-ass muthafuckas."

"Yo ass can see-"

"I don't wanna see," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd low, n' then looked back all up in tha rubber ball, arcin from hand ta hand. "But I can hear dem sometimes, late at night. They're like tha wind, all sighin together n' shit. In tha attic. Da basement. Da rooms fo' realz. All over n' shit.. n' you KNOWS dat shiznit was mah fault, cuz of tha way I am. Da key. Da lil silver key."

"Danny, don't... don't upset yo ass dis way."

"But it's his ass too," Danny holla'd. "It's Daddy fo' realz. And it's you, biatch. Well shiiiit, it wants all of us. It's trickin Daddy, it's foolin him, tryin ta make his ass be thinkin it wants his ass da most thugged-out. Well shiiiit, it wants me da most thugged-out yo, but it will take all of us."

"If only dat snowmobile-"

"They wouldn't let him," Danny holla'd up in dat same low voice. "They made his ass throw part of it away tha fuck into tha snow. Far away. I dreamed it fo' realz. And he knows dat biatch straight-up is up in 217." Dude looked at her wit his fuckin lil' dark, frightened eyes. "It don't matta whether you believe me or not."

Bitch slipped a arm round his muthafuckin ass.

"I believe you, Danny, tell me tha real deal. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack. Is Jack... is he goin ta try ta hurt us?"

"They'll try ta make him," Danny holla'd. "I've been callin fo' Mista Muthafuckin yo. Hallorann. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude holla'd if I eva needed his ass ta just call fo' realz. And I have been. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. But it's wack hard. Well shiiiit, it make me tired. And da most thugged-out shitty part is I don't know if he's hearin me or not. I don't be thinkin his schmoooove ass can call back cuz it's too far fo' his muthafuckin ass fo' realz. And I don't know if it's too far fo' me or not. Tomorrow-"

"What bout tomorrow?"

Dude shook his head. "Nothing."

"Where is he now?" she asked. "'Four daddy?"

"He's up in tha basement. I don't be thinkin he'll be up tonight."

Bitch stood up suddenly. "Wait right here fo' mah dirty ass. Five minutes."

Da kitchen was cold n' deserted under tha overhead fluorescent bars. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch went ta tha rack where tha carvin knives hung from they magnetized strips. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch took tha longest n' sharpest, wrapped it up in a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dish towel, n' left tha kitchen, turnin off tha lights as dat biiiiatch went.

Danny sat on tha stairs, his wild lil' fuckin eyes followin tha course of his bangin red rubber bizzle from hand ta hand. Dude sang: "Bitch lives on tha twentieth floor uptown, tha elevator is fucked up down. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So I strutt one-two flight three flight four...:'

(-Lou, Lou, skip ta m' Lou-)

His rappin broke off yo. Dude listened.

(-Skip ta m' Lou mah darlin'-)

Da voice was up in his head, so much a part of him, so frighteningly close dat it might done been a part of his own thoughts, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. Dat shiznit was soft n' infinitely sly. Mockin his muthafuckin ass. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Seemin ta say:

(Oh fo'sho, you'll like it here, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. Try it, you'll like dat shit. Try it, you'll liiiiike it-)

Now his wild lil' fuckin ears was open n' his schmoooove ass could hear dem again, tha gathering, pimps or spirits or maybe tha hotel itself, a thugged-out dreadful funhouse where all tha sideshows ended up in dirtnap, where all tha specially painted boogies was straight-up kickin it, where hedges strutted, where a lil' small-ass silver key could start tha obscenity. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Soft n' sighing, rustlin like tha endless winta wind dat played under tha eaves at night, tha deadly lullin wind tha summer tourists never heard. Dat shiznit was like tha somnolent hum of summer wasps up in a ground nest, chilly, deadly, beginnin ta wake up. They was ten thousand feet high.

(Why be a raven like a gangbangin' freestylin desk, biatch? Da higher tha fewer, of course biaaatch! Have another cup of tea!)

Dat shiznit was a livin sound yo, but not voices, not breath fo' realz. A playa of a philosophical bent might have called it tha sound of souls. Dick Hallorann's Nana, whoz ass had grown up on southern roadz up in tha muthafuckin years before tha turn of tha century, would have called it ha'ants fo' realz. A psycho investigator might have had a long-ass name fo' it-psychic echo, psychokinesis, a telesmic sport. But ta Danny dat shiznit was only tha sound of tha hotel, tha oldschool monster, creakin steadily n' eva mo' closely round them: halls dat now stretched back all up in time as well as distance, horny shadows, unquiet guests whoz ass did not rest easy as fuck.

In tha darkened ballroom tha clock under glass struck seven-thirty wit a single musical note.

A hoarse voice, made brutal wit drink, shouted: "Unmask n' let's fuck!"

Wendy, halfway across tha lobby, jerked ta a standstill.

Bitch looked at Danny on tha stairs, still tossin tha bizzle from hand ta hand. "Did yo dirty ass bear something?"

Danny only looked at her n' continued ta toss tha bizzle from hand ta hand.

There would be lil chill fo' dem dat night, although they slept together behind a locked door.

And up in tha dark, his wild lil' fuckin eyes open, Danny thought:

(Dude wants ta be one of dem n' live forever n' shit. That's what tha fuck da thug wants.)

Wendy thought:

(If I have to, I'll take his ass further up. If we're goin ta take a thugged-out dirtnap I'd rather do it up in tha mountains.)

Bitch had left tha butcher knife, still wrapped up in tha towel, under tha bed. Biatch kept her hand close ta dat shit. They dozed off n' on. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da hotel creaked round dem wild-ass muthafuckas. Outside snow had begun ta spit down from a sky like lead.

Chapta 40. In tha Basement
(!!! Da boila tha goddam boiler!!!)

Da thought came tha fuck into Jack Torrance's mind full-blown, edged up in bright, warnin red. On its heels, tha voice of Watson:

(If you forget it'll just creep a creep n' like as not you a yo' fambly wilt end up on tha fuckin moon... she's rated fo' two-fifty but she'd blow long before dat now, nahmeean?.. I'd be scared ta come down n' stand next ta her at a hundred n' eighty.)

He'd been down here all night, porin over tha boxez of oldschool records, possessed by a gangbangin' frantic feelin dat time was gettin short n' da thug would gotta hurry. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Still tha vital clues, tha connections dat would make every last muthafuckin thang clear, eluded his muthafuckin ass yo. His fingers was yellow n' grimy wit crumblin oldschool paper n' shiznit fo' realz. And he'd become so absorbed dat schmoooove muthafucka hadn't checked tha boila once yo. He'd dumped it tha previous evenin round six o'clock, when he first came down. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Dat shiznit was now, nahmeean?..

Dude looked at his thugged-out lil' peep n' jumped up, kickin over e stack of oldschool invoices.

Christ, dat shiznit was quarta of five up in tha morning.

Behind him, tha furnace kicked on. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da boila was bustin a groaning, whistlin sound.

Dude ran ta it yo. His face, which had become thinner up in tha last month or so, was now heavily shadowed wit beardstubble n' dat schmoooove muthafucka had a hollow concentration-camp look.

Da boila heat gauge stood at two hundred n' ten poundz per square inch yo. Dude fancied his schmoooove ass could almost peep tha sidez of tha oldschool patched n' welded boila heavin up wit tha lethal strain.

(Bitch creeps... I'd be scared ta come down n' stand next ta her at a hundred n' eighty...)

Suddenly a cold-ass lil cold n' temptin inner voice was rappin ta his muthafuckin ass.

(Let it go. Go git Wendy n' Danny n' git tha fuck outta here, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. Let it blow sky-high.)

Dude could visualize tha explosion. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. A double thunderclap dat would first rip tha ass from dis place, then tha ass. Da boila would go wit a orangeviolet flash dat would drizzle bangin' n' burnin shrapnel all over tha cellar. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. In his crazy-ass mind his schmoooove ass could peep tha redhot trinketz of metal careenin from floor ta walls ta ceilin like strange billiard balls, whistlin jagged dirtnap all up in tha air. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Some of them, surely, would whizz right all up in dat stone arch, light on tha oldschool papers on tha other side, n' they would burn merry hell. Fuck Wit tha secrets, burn tha clues, it's a mystery no livin hand will eva solve. Then tha gas explosion, a pimped out rumblin crackle of flame, a giant pilot light dat would turn tha whole centa of tha hotel tha fuck into a funky-ass broila n' shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Stairs n' hallways n' ceilings n' rooms aflame like tha castle up in tha last reel of a Frankenstein porno. Da flame spreadin tha fuck into tha wings, hurryin up tha black-and-blue-twined carpets like eager guests, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. Da silk wallpaper charrin n' curling. There was no sprinklers, only dem outmoded hoses n' no one ta use dem wild-ass muthafuckas fo' realz. And there wasn't a gangbangin' fire engine up in tha ghetto dat could git here before late March. Burn, baby, burn, so check it before ya wreck it. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. In twelve minutes there would be not a god damn thang left but tha bare bones.

Da needle on tha gauge had moved up ta two-twelve. Da boila was creakin n' groanin like a oldschool biatch tryin ta git outta bed. Hissin jetz of steam had begun ta play round tha edgez of oldschool patches; beadz of solda had begun ta sizzle.

Dude didn't see, da ruffneck didn't hear. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Frozen wit his hand on tha valve dat would dump off tha heat n' damp tha fire, Jack's eyes glittered from they sockets like sapphires.

(It's mah last chance.)

Da only thang not cheddaed up in now was tha game-insurizzle policy dat schmoooove muthafucka had taken up jointly wit Wendy up in tha summer between his wild lil' first n' second muthafuckin years at Stovington. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Forty-thousand-dollar dirtnap benefit, double indemnitizzle if he or her dope ass took a dirt nap up in a train crash, a plane crash, or a gangbangin' fire. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Seven-come-eleven, take a thugged-out dirtnap tha secret dirtnap n' win a hundred dollars.

(A fire... eighty thousand dollars.)

They would have time ta git out. Even if they was chillin, they would have time ta git up yo. Dude believed dis shiznit fo' realz. And da ruffneck didn't be thinkin tha hedges or anythang else would try ta hold dem back if tha Overlook was goin up in flames.

(Flames.)

Da needle inside tha greasy, almost opaque dial shitty danced up ta two hundred n' fifteen poundz per square inch.

Another memory occurred ta him, a cold-ass lil childhood memory. There had been a wasps' nest up in tha lower branchez of they apple tree behind tha house. One of his olda brothers-he couldn't remember which one now-had been stung while swingin up in tha oldschool tire Daddy had hung from one of tha tree's lower branches. Well shiiiit, it had been late summer, when wasps tend ta be at they ugliest.

Their father, just home from work, dressed up in his whites, tha smell of brew hangin round his wild lil' grill up in a gangbangin' fine mist, had gathered all three thugs, Brett, Mike, n' lil Jacky, n' holla'd at dem da thug was goin ta git rid of tha wasps.

"Now watch," dat schmoooove muthafucka had holla'd, smilin n' staggerin a lil (he hadn't been rockin tha cane then, tha collision wit tha gin n juice truck was muthafuckin years up in tha future). "Maybe you'll learn something. My fuckin daddy flossed mah crazy ass this."

Dude had raked a funky-ass big-ass pile of rain-dampened leaves under tha branch where tha wasps' nest rested, a thugged-out deadlier fruit than tha shrunken but dirty applez they tree probably produced up in late September, which was then still half a month away yo. Dude lit tha leaves. Da dizzle was clear n' windless. Da leaves smoldered but didn't straight-up burn, n' they done cooked up a smell-a fragrancethat had echoed back ta his ass each fall when pimps up in Saturdizzle baggy-ass pants n' light Windbreakers raked leaves together n' burned dem wild-ass muthafuckas fo' realz. A dope smell wit a funky-ass bitta undertone, rich n' evocative. Da smolderin leaves produced pimped out raftz of smoke dat drifted up ta obscure tha nest.

Their daddy had let tha leaves smolda all dat afternoon, drankin brew on tha porch n' droppin tha empty Black Label cans tha fuck into his hoe's plastic floorbucket while his cold-ass two olda lil playas flanked his ass n' lil Jacky sat on tha steps at his wild lil' feet, playin wit his Bolo Bouncer n' rappin monotonously over n' over: "Yo crazy-ass cheatin ass... will make you weep... yo' cheatin ass... is gonna tell on you, biatch."

At quarta of six, just before supper, Daddy had gone up ta tha apple tree wit his fuckin lil playas grouped carefully behind his muthafuckin ass. In one hand dat schmoooove muthafucka had a garden hoe yo. Dude knocked tha leaves apart, leavin lil clots spread round ta smolda n' take a thugged-out dirt nap. Then he reached tha hoe handle up, weavin n' blinking, n' afta two or three tries he knocked tha nest ta tha ground.

Da thugs fled fo' tha safety of tha porch yo, but Daddy only stood over tha nest, swayin n' blinkin down at dat shit. Jacky crept back ta peep fo' realz. A few wasps was crawlin sluggishly over tha paper terrain of they property yo, but they was not tryin ta fly. From tha inside of tha nest, tha black n' alien place, came a never-to-be-forgotten sound: a low, somnolent buzz, like tha sound of hightension wires.

"Why don't they try ta stin you, Daddy?" dat schmoooove muthafucka had asked.

"Da smoke make em faded, Jacky. Go git mah gascan."

Dude ran ta fetch dat shit. Daddy doused tha nest wit amber gasoline.

"Now step away, Jacky, unless you wanna lose yo' eyebrows."

Dude had stepped away. From somewhere up in tha voluminous foldz of his white overblouse, Daddy had produced a wooden kitchen match yo. Dude lit it wit his cold-ass thumbnail n' flung it onto tha nest. There had been a white-orange explosion, almost soundless up in its ferocity. Daddy had stepped away, cacklin wildly. Da wasps' nest had gone up in no time.

"Fire," Daddy had holla'd, turnin ta Jacky wit a smile. "Fire will bust a cap up in anything."

Afta supper tha thugs had come up in tha day's wanin light ta stand solemnly round tha charred n' blackened nest. From tha bangin' interior had come tha sound of wasp bodies poppin like corn.

Da heat gauge stood at two-twenty fo' realz. A low iron beatboxin sound was buildin up in tha gutz of tha thang. Jetz of steam stood up erect up in a hundred places like porcupine quills.

(Fire will bust a cap up in anything.)

Jack suddenly started. This type'a shiznit happens all tha time yo. Dude had been dozin off... n' dat schmoooove muthafucka had almost dozed his dirty ass right tha fuck into mackdaddydom cone. What up in God's name had his thugged-out lil' punk-ass been thankin of, biatch? Protectin tha hotel was his thang yo. Dude was tha caretaker.

A sweat of terror sprang ta his handz so quickly dat at first he missed his wild lil' freakadelic grip on tha big-ass valve. Then his schmoooove ass curled his wild lil' fingers round its spokes yo. Dude whirled it one turn, two, three. There was a giant hiss of steam, dragon's breath fo' realz. A warm tropical mist rose from beneath tha boila n' veiled his muthafuckin ass. For a moment his schmoooove ass could no longer peep tha dial but thought he must have waited too long; tha groaning, clankin sound inside tha boila increased, followed by a seriez of heavy rattlin soundz n' tha wrenchin screech of metal.

When a shitload of tha steam blew away da perved-out muthafucka saw dat tha heat gauge had dropped back ta two hundred n' was still sinking. Da jetz of steam escapin round tha soldered patches fuckin started ta lose they force. Da wrenching, grindin soundz fuckin started ta diminish.

One-ninety... one-eighty... one seventy-five...

(Dude was goin downhill, goin ninety milez a hour, when tha whistle broke tha fuck into a scream-)

But da ruffneck didn't be thinkin it would blow now, nahmeean, biatch? Da press was down ta one-sixty.

(-they found his ass up in tha wreck wit his hand on tha throttle, da thug was scalded ta dirtnap by tha steam.)

Dude stepped away from tha boiler, breathang hard, tremblin yo. Dude looked at his handz n' saw dat blistas was already risin on his thugged-out lil' palms yo. Hell wit tha blisters, tha pimpin' muthafucka thought, n' laughed shakily yo. Dude had almost took a dirt nap wit his hand on tha throttle, like Casey tha engineer up in "Da Wreck of tha Oldskool 97." Worse still, da thug would have capped tha Overlook. Da final crashin failure yo. Dude had failed as a mackdaddy, a writer, a homeboy, n' a gangbangin' daddy n' shiznit yo. Dude had even failed as a thugged-out faded. But you couldn't do much betta up in tha oldschool failure category than ta blow up tha buildin you was supposed ta be takin care of fo' realz. And dis was no ordinary building.

By no means.

Christ yo, but he needed a thugged-out drink.

Da press had dropped down ta eighty psi. Cautiously, wincin a lil at tha wild-ass bullshit up in his hands, his schmoooove ass closed tha dump valve again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. But from now on tha boila would gotta be peeped mo' closely than eva n' shit. Well shiiiit, it might done been seriously weakened. Dude wouldn't trust it at mo' than one hundred psi fo' tha rest of tha winter n' shiznit fo' realz. And if they was a lil chilly, they would just gotta grin n' bear dat shit.

Dude had fucked up two of tha blistas yo. His handz throbbed like rotten teeth.

A drink fo' realz. A drank would fix his ass up, n' there wasn't a thang up in tha goddamn doggy den besides cookin sherry fo' realz. At dis point a thugged-out drank would be medicinal. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack. That was just it, by Dogg fo' realz. An anesthetic yo. Dude had done his fuckin lil' duty n' now his schmoooove ass could bust a lil anesthetic-suttin' stronger than Excedrin. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. But there was nothing.

Dude remembered bottlez glitterin up in tha shadows.

Dude had saved tha hotel. Da hotel would wanna reward his muthafuckin ass yo. Dude felt shizzle of it yo. Dude took his handkerchizzle outta his back pocket n' went ta tha stairs yo. Dude rubbed at his crazy-ass grill. Just a lil drink. Just one. To ease tha pain.

Dude had served tha Overlook, n' now tha Overlook would serve his muthafuckin ass yo. Dude was shizzle of it yo. His feet on tha stair risers was quick n' eager, tha hurryin stepz of a playa whoz ass has come home from a long-ass n' bitta war. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Dat shiznit was 5:20 A. M., MST.

Chapta 41: Daylight
Danny awoke wit a muffled gasp from a shitty dream. There had been a explosion. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. A fire. Da Overlook was burnin up yo. Dude n' his crazy-ass mommy was watchin it from tha front lawn.

Mommy had holla'd: "Look, Danny, peep tha hedges."

Dude looked at dem n' they was all dead as fuckin fried chicken. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Their leaves had turned a suffocant brown. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da tightly packed branches flossed all up in like tha skeletonz of halfdismembered corpses fo' realz. And then his fuckin lil' daddy had burst outta tha Overlooks big-ass double doors, n' da thug was burnin like a torch yo. His threadz was up in flames, his skin had acquired a thugged-out dark n' sinista tan dat was growin darker by tha moment, his afro was a funky-ass burnin bush.

That was when da thug woke up, his cold-ass throat tight wit fear, his handz clutchin all up in tha shizzle n' blankets yo. Had da perved-out muthafucka screamed, biatch? Dude looked over at his crazy-ass mutha n' shit. Wendy lay on her side, tha blankets up ta her chin, a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass sheaf of straw-colored afro lyin against her cheek. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch looked like a cold-ass lil lil pimp her muthafuckin ass. Fuck dat shit, dat schmoooove muthafucka hadn't screamed.

Lyin up in bed, lookin upward, tha nightmare fuckin started ta drain away yo. Dude had a cold-ass lil curious feelin dat some pimped out fuck up

(fire, biatch? explosion?)

had been averted by inches yo. Dude let his crazy-ass mind drift out, searchin fo' his fuckin lil' daddy, n' found his ass standin somewhere below. In tha lobby. Danny pushed a lil harder, tryin ta git inside his wild lil' daddy n' shit. Dat shiznit was not good. I be fly as a gangbangin' falcon, soarin all up in tha sky dawwwwg! Because Daddy was thankin bout tha Shiznitty Thin yo. Dude was thankin how

(phat just one or two would be i don't care sun's over tha yardarm somewhere up in tha ghetto remember how tha fuck we used ta say dat al, biatch? gin n' tonic bourbon wit just a thugged-out dash of bittas scotch n' soda rum n' coke tweedledum n' tweedledee a thugged-out drank fo' me n' a thugged-out drank fo' thee tha martians have landed somewhere up in tha ghetto princeton or houston or stokely on carmichael some fuckin place afta all tis tha season n' none of our asses are)

(GET OUT OF HIS MIND, YOU LITTLE SHIT!)

Dude recoiled up in terror from dat menstrual voice, his wild lil' fuckin eyes widening, his handz tightenin tha fuck into claws on tha counterpane. Well shiiiit, it hadn't been tha voice of his wild lil' daddy but a cold-ass lil smart-ass mimic fo' realz. A voice he knew yo. Hoarse, brutal, yet underpointed wit a vacuous sort of humor.

Was it so near, then?

Dude threw tha covers back n' swung his wild lil' feet up onto tha floor yo. Dude kicked his slippers up from under tha bed n' put dem on. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude went ta tha door n' pulled it open n' hurried up ta tha main corridor, his slippered feet whisperin on tha nap of tha carpet runner n' shiznit yo. Dude turned tha corner.

There was a playa on all fours halfway down tha corridor, between his ass n' tha stairs.

Danny froze.

Da playa looked up at his muthafuckin ass yo. His eyes was tiny n' red. Dude was dressed up in some sort of silvery, spangled costume fo' realz. A dawg costume, Danny realized. Protrudin from tha rump of dis strange creation was a long-ass n' floppy tail wit a puff on tha end yo, but it ain't no stoppin cause I be still poppin' fo' realz. A zipper ran up tha back of tha costume ta tha neck. To tha left of his ass was a thugged-out dawg's or wolf's head, blank eyesockets above tha muzzle, tha grill open up in a meaningless snarl dat flossed tha rug's black n' blue pattern between fangs dat rocked up ta be papier-mache.

Da dudez grill n' chin n' cheeks was smeared wit blood.

Dude fuckin started ta growl at Danny yo. Dude was grinnin yo, but tha growl was real. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack. Dat shiznit was deep up in his cold-ass throat, a cold-ass lil chillin primitizzle sound. Then his thugged-out lil' punk-ass fuckin started ta bark yo. His teeth was also stained red. Dude fuckin started ta crawl toward Danny, draggin his boneless tail behind his muthafuckin ass. Da costume dawg's head lay unheeded on tha carpet, glarin vacantly over Danny's shoulder.

"Let me by," Danny holla'd.

"I'm goin ta smoke you, lil boy," tha dogman answered, n' suddenly a gangbangin' fusillade of barks came from his wild lil' freakadelic grinnin grill. They was human imitations yo, but tha savagery up in dem was real. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack. Da dudez afro was dark, greased wit sweat from his confinin costume. There was a mixture of scotch n' champagne on his breath.

Danny flinched back but didn't run. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. "Let me by."

"Not by tha afro of mah chinny-chin-chin," tha dogman replied. His lil' small-ass red eyes was fixed attentively on Danny's grill yo. Dude continued ta grin. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. "I'm goin ta smoke you up, lil pimp fo' realz. And I be thinkin I'll start wit yo' plump lil cock."

Dude fuckin started ta prizzle skittishly forward, makin lil leaps n' snarling.

Danny's nerve broke yo. Dude fled back tha fuck into tha short hallway dat hustled ta they quarters, lookin back over his shoulder n' shit. There was a seriez of mixed howls n' barks n' growls, fucked up by slurred mutterings n' giggles.

Danny stood up in tha hallway, trembling.

"Git it up!" tha fadeden dogman cried up from round tha corner n' shiznit yo. His voice was both violent n' despairing. "Git it up, Harry you biiiatch-bastard hommie! I don't care how tha fuck nuff casinos n' airlines n' porno g-units you own! I know what tha fuck you like up in tha privacy of yo' own h-home biaaatch! Git it up! I'll huff... n' I'll puff... until Harry Derwent's all bloowwwwn down!" Dude ended wit a long, chillin howl dat seemed ta turn tha fuck into a scream of rage n' pain just before it dwindled off.

Danny turned apprehensively ta tha closed bedroom door all up in tha end of tha hallway n' strutted on tha fuckin' down-lowly down ta it yo. Dude opened it n' poked his head all up in cause I gots dem finger-lickin' chickens wit tha siz-auce yo. His mommy was chillin up in exactly tha same position. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. No one was hearin dis but his muthafuckin ass.

Dude closed tha door softly n' went back up ta tha intersection of they corridor n' tha main hall, hopin tha dogman would be gone, tha way tha blood on tha wallz of tha Presidential Suite had been gone yo. Dude peeked round tha corner carefully.

Da playa up in tha dawg costume was still there, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho yo. Dude had put his head back on n' was now prancin on all fours by tha stairwell, chasin his cold-ass tail yo. Dude occasionally leaped off tha rug n' came down makin dawg grunts up in his cold-ass throat.

"Woof! Woof! Bowwowwow! Grrrrrr!"

These soundz came hollowly outta tha mask's stylized snarlin grill, n' among dem was soundz dat might done been sobs or laughter.

Danny went back ta tha bedroom n' sat down on his cot, coverin his wild lil' fuckin eyes wit his hands. Da hotel was hustlin thangs now, nahmeean, biatch? Maybe at first tha thangs dat had happened had only been accidents, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. Maybe at first tha thangs dat schmoooove muthafucka had peeped straight-up was like freaky pictures dat couldn't hurt his muthafuckin ass. But now tha hotel was controllin dem thangs n' they could hurt. Da Overlook hadn't wanted his ass ta git all up in his wild lil' daddy n' shit. That might spoil all tha fun. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So it had put tha dogman up in his way, just as it had put tha hedge muthafuckas between dem n' tha road.

But his fuckin lil' daddy could come here, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho fo' realz. And sooner or lata his fuckin lil' daddy would.

Dude fuckin started ta cry, tha tears rollin silently down his cheeks. Dat shiznit was too late. They was goin ta die, all three of them, n' when tha Overlook opened next late spring, they would be right here ta greet tha guests along wit tha rest of tha spooks. Da biatch up in tha tub. Da dogman. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da wack dark thang dat had been up in tha cement tunnel. They would be-

(Stop! Quit dat now!)

Dude knuckled tha tears furiously from his wild lil' fuckin eyes yo. Dude would try as hard as his schmoooove ass could ta keep dat from happening. Not ta his dirty ass, not ta his fuckin lil' daddy n' mommy yo. Dude would try as hard as his schmoooove ass could.

Dude closed his wild lil' fuckin eyes n' busted his crazy-ass mind up in a high, hard crystal bolt.

(!!! DICK PLEASE COME QUICK WE'RE IN BAD TROUBLE DICK WE NEED)

And suddenly, up in tha darknizz behind his wild lil' fuckin eyes tha thang dat chased his ass down tha Overlook's dark halls up in his cold-ass trips was there, right there, a big-ass creature dressed up in white, its prehistoric club raised over its head:

"I'll make you stop dat shiznit son! Yo ass goddam mini-dawg dawwwwg! I'll make you stop it cuz I be yo' FATHER!"

"No!" Dude jerked back ta tha realitizzle of tha bedroom, his wild lil' fuckin eyes wide n' staring, tha screams tumblin helplessly from his crazy-ass grill as his crazy-ass mutha bolted awake, clutchin tha shizzle ta her breasts.

"No Daddy no no no-"

And they both heard tha vicious, descendin swin of tha invisible club, cuttin tha air somewhere straight-up close, then fadin away ta silence as he ran ta his crazy-ass mutha n' hugged her, tremblin like a rabbit up in a snare.

Da Overlook was not goin ta let his ass call Dick. That might spoil tha fun, like a muthafucka.

They was ridin' solo.

Outside tha snow came harder, curtainin dem off from tha ghetto. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass.

Chapta 42. Mid-Air
Dick Hallorann's flight was called at 6:45 A. M., EST, n' tha boardin clerk held his ass by Gate 31, shiftin his wild lil' flight bag nervously from hand ta hand, until tha last call at 6:55. They was both lookin fo' a playa named Carlton Vecker, tha only passenger on TWA's flight 196 from Miami ta Denver whoz ass hadn't checked in.

"Okay," tha clerk holla'd, n' issued Hallorann a funky-ass blue firstclass boardin pass. "Yo ass lucked out. Yo ass can board, sir."

Hallorann hurried up tha enclosed boardin ramp n' let tha mechanically grinnin stewardess tear his thugged-out lil' pass off n' give his ass tha stub.

"We're servin breakfast on tha flight," tha stew holla'd. "If you'd like-"

"Just coffee, babe," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, n' went down tha aisle ta a seat up in tha tokin section. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude kept expectin tha no-show Vecker ta pop all up in tha door like a jack-in-the-box all up in tha last second. Da biatch up in tha seat by tha window was readin Yo ass Can Be Yo crazy-ass Own Best Hommie wit a sour, unbelievin expression on her grill yo. Hallorann buckled his seat belt n' then wrapped his big-ass black handz round tha seat's armrests n' promised tha absent Carlton Vecker dat it would take his ass n' five phat TWA flight attendants ta drag his ass outta his seat yo. Dude kept his wild lil' fuckin eye on his watch. Well shiiiit, it dragged off tha minutes ta tha 7:00 takeoff time wit maddenin slowness.

At 7:05 tha stewardess informed dem dat there would be a slight delay while tha ground crew rechecked one of tha latches on tha cargo door.

"Shiznit fo' domes," Dick Hallorann muttered.

Da sharp-faced biatch turned her sour, unbelievin expression on his ass n' then went back ta her book.

Dude had dropped tha night all up in tha airport, goin from counta ta counter-United, Gangsta, TWA, Continental, Braniff-hustlin tha ticket clerks. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Sometime afta midnight, drankin his wild lil' fuckin eighth or ninth cup of fruity-ass malt liquor up in tha canteen, dat schmoooove muthafucka had decided da thug was bein a asshole ta have taken dis whole thang on his own shoulders. There was authoritizzles yo. Dude had gone down ta tha nearest bank of telephones, n' afta poppin' off ta three different operators, dat schmoooove muthafucka had gotten tha emergency number of tha Rocky Mountain Nationizzle Park Authority.

Da playa whoz ass answered tha telephone sounded utterly worn up yo. Hallorann had given a gangbangin' false name n' holla'd there was shiznit all up in tha Overlook Hotel, westside of Sidewinder n' shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Shiznitty shit.

Dude was put on hold.

Da ranger (Hallorann assumed da thug was a ranger) came back on up in bout five minutes.

"They've gots a CB," tha ranger holla'd.

"Sure they've gots a CB," Hallorann holla'd.

"Our thugged-out asses haven't had a Maydizzle call from dem wild-ass muthafuckas."

"Man, dat don't matter n' shit. They-"

"Exactly what tha fuck kind of shiznit is they in, Mista Muthafuckin yo. Hall?"

"Well, there's a cold-ass lil crew. Da caretaker n' his crew. I be thinkin maybe he's gone a lil nuts, you know. I be thinkin maybe he might hurt his hoe n' his fuckin lil boy."

"May I ask how tha fuck you've come by dis shiznit, sir?"

Hallorann closed his wild lil' fuckin eyes. "What's yo' name, fellow?"

"Tomothy Staunton, sir."

"Well, Tom, I know. Now I'll be just as straight wit you as I can be. There's shitty shiznit up there, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. Maybe killin bad, do you dig what tha fuck I'm sayin?"

"Mista Muthafuckin yo. Hall, I straight-up gotta know how tha fuck you-"

"Look," Hallorann had holla'd. "I'm spittin some lyrics ta you I know fo' realz. A few muthafuckin years back there was a gangbangin' fellow up there name of Grady yo. Dude capped his hoe n' his cold-ass two daughtas n' then pulled tha strang on his dirty ass. I'm spittin some lyrics ta you it's goin ta happen again n' again n' again if you muthafuckas don't haul yo' asses up there n' stop id"

"Mista Muthafuckin yo. Hall, you're not callin from Colorado."

"No. But what tha fuck difference-"

"If you're not up in Colorado, you're not up in CB range of tha Overlook Hotel. If you're not up in CB range you can't possibly done been up in contact wit the, uh..." Faint rattle of papers. "Da Torrizzle crew. While I had you on hold I tried ta telephone. It's out, which aint a god damn thang unusual. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack. There is still twenty-five milez of aboveground telephone lines between tha hotel n' tha Sidewinder switchin station. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. My fuckin conclusion is dat you must be some sort of crank."

"Oh dude, you fuckin wack..." But his fuckin lil' despair was too pimped out ta find a noun ta go wit tha adjective. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Suddenly, illumination. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. "Call them!" his schmoooove ass cried.

"Sir?"

"Yo ass gots tha CB, they gots tha CB. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So call them! Call dem n' ask dem what's up!"

There was a funky-ass brief silence, n' tha hummin of long-distizzle wires.

"Yo ass tried dat too, didn't yo slick ass?" Hallorann asked. "That's why you had mah crazy ass on hold so long. Yo ass tried tha beeper n' then you tried tha CB n' you didn't git not a god damn thang but you don't be thinkin nothing's wrong... what tha fuck is you muthafuckas bustin up there, biatch? Sittin on yo' asses n' playin gin rummy?"

"Fuck dat shit, we is not," Staunton holla'd angrily yo. Hallorann was relieved all up in tha sound of anger up in tha voice. For tha last time he felt da thug was bustin lyrics ta a playa n' not ta a recording. "I'm tha only playa here, sir. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Every other ranger up in tha park, plus game wardens, plus volunteers, is up in Hasty Notch, riskin they lives cuz three wack assholez wit six months' experience decided ta try tha uptown grill of Mackdaddy's Ram. They're stuck halfway up there n' maybe they'll git down n' maybe they won't. There is two choppers up there n' tha pimps whoz ass is flyin dem is riskin they lives cuz it's night here n' it's startin ta snow. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So if you're still havin shiznit puttin all dat shiznit together, I'll hit you wit a hand wit dat shit. Number one, I aint gots anybody ta bust ta tha Overlook. Number two, tha Overlook isn't a prioritizzle here-what happens up in tha park be a priority. Number three, by daybreak neither one of dem choppers is ghon be able ta fly cuz it's goin ta snow like crazy, accordin ta tha Nationizzle Weather Service. Do you KNOW tha thang?"

"Yeah," Hallorann had holla'd softly. "I understand."

"Now mah guess as ta why I couldn't raise dem on tha CB is straight-up simple. I don't know what tha fuck time it is where yo ass is yo, but up here it's nine-thirty. I be thinkin they may have turned it off n' gone ta bed. Now if you-"

"Dope luck wit yo' climbers, dude," Hallorann holla'd. "But I want you ta know dat they aint tha only ones whoz ass is stuck up high cuz they didn't know what tha fuck they was gettin into."

Dude had hung up tha phone.

At 7:20 A. M. tha TWA 747 backed lumberingly outta its stall, turned, n' rolled up toward tha runway yo. Hallorann let up a long, soundless exhale. Carlton Vecker, wherever yo ass is, smoke yo' ass out.

Flight 196 parted company wit tha ground at 7:28, n' at 7:31, as it gained altitude, tha thought-pistol went off up in Dick Hallorann's head again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. His shouldaz hunched uselessly against tha smell of oranges n' then jerked spasmodically yo. His forehead wrinkled, his crazy-ass grill drew down up in a grimace of pain.

(!!! DICK PLEASE COME QUICK WE'RE IN BAD TROUBLE DICK WE NEED)

And dat was all. Dat shiznit was sudd enly gone. No fadin up dis time. Da communication had been chopped off cleanly, as if wit a knife. Well shiiiit, it scared his muthafuckin ass yo. His hands, still clutchin tha seat rests, had gone almost white yo. His grill was dry. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Somethang shitty happened ta tha pimp yo. Dude was cure of dat shit. If mah playas had hurt dat lil child-

"Do you always react so violently ta takeoffs?"

Dude looked around. Dat shiznit was tha biatch up in tha horn-rimmed glasses.

"It wasn't that," Hallorann holla'd. "I've gots a steel plate up in mah head. From Korea. Every now n' then it gives me a twinge. Vibrates, don't you know. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Scramblez tha signal."

"Is dat so?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"It be tha line soldier whoz ass ultimately pays fo' any foreign intervention," tha sharp-faced biatch holla'd grimly.

"Is dat so?"

"It is. This ghetto must swear off its dirty lil wars. Da CIA has been all up in tha root of every last muthafuckin dirty lil war Tha Ghetto has fought up in dis century. Da CIA n' dollar diplomacy."

Bitch opened her book n' fuckin started ta read. Da No SMOKING sign went off yo. Hallorann peeped tha recedin land n' wondered if tha pimp was all right yo. Dude had pimped a affectionate feelin fo' dat boy, although his wild lil' folks hadn't seemed all dat much.

Dude hoped ta Dogg they was watchin up fo' Danny.

Chapta 43. Drinks on tha Crib
Jack stood up in tha dinin room just outside tha batwin doors leadin tha fuck into tha Colorado Lounge, his head cocked, listenin yo. Dude was smilin faintly.

Around him, his schmoooove ass could hear tha Overlook Hotel comin ta game.

Dat shiznit was hard ta say just how tha fuck he knew yo, but he guessed it wasn't pimped outly different from tha perceptions Danny had from time ta time... like father, like son. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Wasn't dat how tha fuck dat shiznit was popularly expressed?

It wasn't a perception of sight or sound, although dat shiznit was straight-up near ta dem thangs, separated from dem senses by tha filmiest of perceptual curtains. Dat shiznit was as if another Overlook now lay scant inches beyond dis one, separated from tha real ghetto (if there is such a thang as a "real ghetto," Jack thought) but gradually comin tha fuck into balizzle wit it yo. Dude was reminded of tha 3-D pornos he'd peeped as a kid. If you looked at -the screen without tha special glasses, you saw a thugged-out double image-the sort of thang da thug was feelin now, nahmeean, biatch? But when you put tha glasses on, it made sense.

All tha hotel's eras was together now, all but dis current one, tha Torrizzle Era fo' realz. And dis would be together wit tha rest straight-up soon now, nahmeean, biatch? That was good. I be fly as a gangbangin' falcon, soarin all up in tha sky dawwwwg! That was straight-up good.

Dude could almost hear tha self-important ding!ding! of tha silver-plated bell on tha registration desk, summonin bellboys ta tha front as pimps up in tha fashionable flannelz of tha 1920s checked up in n' pimps up in fashionable 1940s double-breasted pinstripes checked out. There would be three nuns chillin up in front of tha fireplace as they waited fo' tha check-out line ta thin, n' standin behind them, nattily dressed wit diamond stickpins holdin they blueand-white-figured ties, Charlez Grondin n' Vito Gienelli discussed profit n' loss, game n' dirtnap. There was a thugged-out dozen trucks up in tha loadin bays up back, some laid one over tha other like shitty time exposures. In tha eastside-win ballroom, a thugged-out dozen different bidnizz conventions was goin on all up in tha same time within temporal centimetaz of each other n' shit. There was a cold-ass lil costume bizzle goin on. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. There was soirees, weddin receptions, birthdizzle n' anniversary parties. Put ya muthafuckin choppers up if ya feel dis! Men poppin' off bout Neville Chamberlain n' tha Archduke of Austria. Music. Laughter n' shit. Drunkennizz yo. Hysteria. Little love, not here yo, but a steady undercurrent of sensuousnizz fo' realz. And his schmoooove ass could almost hear all of dem together, driftin all up in tha hotel n' bustin a graceful cacophony. In tha dinin room where da perved-out muthafucka stood, breakfast, lunch, n' dinner fo' seventy muthafuckin years was all bein served simultaneously just behind his muthafuckin ass yo. Dude could almost... no, strike tha almost yo. Dude could hear them, faintly as yet yo, but clearly-the way one can hear thunder milez off on a funky-ass bangin' summer's day. It make me wanna hollar playa! Dude could hear all of them, tha dope strangers yo. Dude was becomin aware of dem as they must done been aware of his ass from tha straight-up start.

All tha roomz of tha Overlook was occupied dis morning.

A full house.

And beyond tha batwings, a low murmur of conversation drifted n' swirled like lazy blunt smoke. Mo' sophisticated, mo' private. Low, throaty biatch laughter, tha kind dat seems ta vibrate up in a gangbangin' fairy rang round tha viscera n' tha genitals. Da sound of a cold-ass lil chedda register, its window softly lighted up in tha warm halfdark, ringin up tha price of a gin rickey, a Manhattan, a thugged-out depression bomber, a sloe gin fizz, a zombie. Da jukebox, pourin up its drinkers' melodies, each one overlappin tha other up in time.

Dude pushed tha batwings open n' stepped through

"Yo muthafucka, thugs," Jack Torrizzle holla'd softly. "I've been away but now I'm back."

"Dope evening, Mista Muthafuckin Torrance," Lloyd holla'd, genuinely pleased. "It's phat ta peep you, biatch."

"It's phat ta be back, Lloyd," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd gravely, n' hooked his fuckin leg over a stool between a playa up in a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass sharp blue suit n' a funky-ass bleary-eyed biatch up in a funky-ass black dress whoz ass was peerin tha fuck into tha depthz of a singapore sling.

"What will it be, Mista Muthafuckin Torrance?"

"Martini," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd wit pimped out pleasure yo. Dude looked all up in tha backbar wit its rowz of dimly gleamin bottles, capped wit they silver siphons. Jim Beam. Wild Turkey. Gilby's. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Sharrod's Private Label. Toro. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Seagram's fo' realz. And home again.

"One big-ass martian, if you please," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. "They've landed somewhere up in tha ghetto, Lloyd." Dude took his wallet up n' laid a twenty carefully on tha bar.

As Lloyd made his fuckin lil' drink, Jack looked over his shoulder n' shit. Every booth was occupied. Some of tha occupants was dressed up in costumes... a biatch up in gauzy harem baggy-ass pants n' a rhinestone-sparkled brassiere, a playa wit a gangbangin' foxhead risin slyly outta his wild lil' fuckin evenin dress, a playa up in a silvery dawg tracksuit whoz ass was ticklin tha nozzle of a biatch up in a sarong wit tha puff on tha end of his fuckin long tail, ta tha general amusement of all.

"No charge ta you, Mista Muthafuckin Torrance," Lloyd holla'd, puttin tha drank down on Jack's twenty. "Yo crazy-ass scrilla is no phat here, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. Ordaz from tha manager."

"Manager?"

A faint unease came over him; nevertheless he picked up tha martini glass n' swirled it, watchin tha olive all up in tha bottom bob slightly up in tha drink's chilly depths.

"Of course. Da manager." Lloyd's smile broadened yo, but his wild lil' fuckin eyes was socketed up in shadow n' his skin was horribly white, like tha skin of a cold-ass lil corpse. "Lata he expects ta peep ta yo' son's well-bein his dirty ass yo. Dude is straight-up horny bout yo' son. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Danny be a talented boy."

Da juniper fumez of tha gin was pleasantly maddenin yo, but they also seemed ta be blurrin his bangin reason. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Danny, biatch? What was all of dis bout Danny, biatch? And what tha fuck was da ruffneck bustin up in a funky-ass bar wit a thugged-out drank up in his hand?

Dude had TAKEN THE PLEDGE yo. Dude had GONE ON THE WAGON yo. Dude had SWORN OFF.

What could they want wit his son, biatch? What could they want wit Danny, biatch? Wendy n' Danny weren't up in it yo. Dude tried ta peep tha fuck into Lloyd's shadowed eyes yo, but dat shiznit was too dark, too dark, dat shiznit was like tryin ta read emotion tha fuck into tha empty orbz of a skull.

(It's me they must want... isn't it, biatch? I be tha one. Not Danny, not Wendy. I'm tha one whoz ass loves it here, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. They wanted ta muthafuckin bounce. I'm tha one whoz ass took care of tha snowmobile... went all up in tha oldschool records... dumped tha press on tha boiler... lied... practically sold mah ass... what tha fuck can they want wit ham?)

"Where is tha manager?" Dude tried ta ask it casually but his fuckin lyrics seemed ta come up between lips already numbed by tha straight-up original gangsta drink, like lyrics from a nightmare rather than dem up in a thugged-out dope dream.

Lloyd only smiled.

"What do you want wit mah son, biatch? Danny's not up in this.,. is he?" Dude heard tha naked plea up in his own voice.

Lloyd's grill seemed ta be hustlin, changing, becomin suttin' pestilent. Da white skin becomin a hepatitic yellow, cracking. Red sores eruptin on tha skin, bleedin foul smellin liquid. Dropletz of blood sprang up on Lloyd's forehead like sweat n' somewhere a silver chime was strikin tha quarter-hour.

(Unmask, unmask!)

"Drink yo' drink, Mista Muthafuckin Torrance," Lloyd holla'd softly. "It isn't a matta dat concerns you, biatch. Not at dis point."

Dude picked his fuckin lil' drank up again, raised it ta his fuckin lips, n' hesitated. This type'a shiznit happens all tha time yo. Dude heard tha hard, wack snap as Danny's arm broke yo. Dude saw tha bicycle flyin brokenly up over tha hood of Al's car, starrin tha windshield. Dude saw a single wheel lyin up in tha road, twisted spokes pointin tha fuck into tha sky like jagz of piano wire.

Dude became aware dat all conversation had stopped.

Dude looked back over his shoulder n' shit. They was all lookin at his ass expectantly, silently. Da playa beside tha biatch up in tha sarong had removed his wild lil' foxhead n' Jack saw dat dat shiznit was Horace Derwent, his thugged-out lil' pallid blond afro spillin across his wild lil' forehead. Everyone all up in tha bar was watching, like a muthafucka. Da biatch beside his ass was lookin at his ass closely, as if tryin ta focus yo. Her dress had slipped off one shoulder n' lookin down his schmoooove ass could peep a loosely puckered nipple cappin one saggin breast. Lookin back at her grill his thugged-out lil' punk-ass fuckin started ta be thinkin dat dis might be tha biatch from 217, tha one whoz ass had tried ta strangle Danny. On his other hand, tha playa up in tha sharp blue suit had removed a lil' small-ass pearl-handled. 32 from his jacket pocket n' was idly spinnin it on tha bar, like a playa wit Russian roulette on his crazy-ass mind.

(I want-)

Dude realized tha lyrics was not passin all up in his wild lil' frozen vocal cordz n' tried again.

"I wanna peep tha manager n' shit. I... I don't be thinkin he understands. My fuckin lil hustla aint a part of all dis bullshit yo. He... "

"Mista Muthafuckin Torrance," Lloyd holla'd, his voice comin wit hideous gentlenizz from inside his thugged-out lil' plague-raddled face, "you will hook up tha manager up in due time yo. Dude has, up in fact, decided ta make you his thugged-out agent up in dis matter n' shit. Now drank yo' drink."

"Drink yo' drink," they all echoed.

Dude picked it up wit a funky-ass badly tremblin hand. Dat shiznit was raw gin. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude looked tha fuck into it, n' lookin was like drowning.

Da biatch beside his ass fuckin started ta rap up in a gangbangin' flat, dead voice: "Roll... out... tha barrel... n' we'll have,... a funky-ass barrel... of fun..."

Lloyd picked it up. Then tha playa up in tha blue suit. Da dog-man joined in, thumpin one paw against tha table

"Now's tha time ta roll tha barrel-"

Derwent added his voice ta tha rest fo' realz. A blunt was cocked up in one corner of his crazy-ass grill at a jaunty angle yo. His right arm was round tha shouldaz of tha biatch up in tha sarong, n' his bangin right crew was gently n' absently strokin her right breast yo. Dude was lookin all up in tha dog-man wit amused contempt as da perved-out muthafucka sang.

"-because tha gang's... all... here!"

Jack brought tha drank ta his crazy-ass grill n' downed it up in three long gulps, tha gin highballin down his cold-ass throat like a movin van up in a tunnel, explodin up in his stomach, reboundin up ta his dome up in one leap where it seized hold of his ass wit a gangbangin' final convulsin fit of tha shakes.

When dat passed off, he felt fine.

"Do it again, please," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, n' pushed tha empty glass toward Lloyd.

"Yes, sir," Lloyd holla'd, takin tha glass. Lloyd looked perfectly aiiight again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da olive-skinned playa had put his. 32 away. Da biatch on his bangin right was starin tha fuck into her singapore slin again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. One breast was wholly exposed now, leanin on tha bar's leather buffer n' shiznit fo' realz. A vacuous croonin noise came from her slack grill. Da loom of conversation had begun again, weavin n' weaving.

His freshly smoked up drank rocked up in front of his muthafuckin ass.

" Muchas gracias, Lloyd," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, pickin it up.

"Always a pleasure ta serve you, Mista Muthafuckin Torrance." Lloyd smiled.

"Yo ass was always tha dopest of them, Lloyd."

"Why, fuck you, sir."

Dude drank slowly dis time, lettin it trickle down his cold-ass throat, tossin all dem peanuts down tha chute fo' phat luck.

Da drank was gone up in no time, n' he ordered another n' shit. Mista Muthafuckin President, I have kicked it wit tha martians n' be pleased ta report they is bumpin'. While Lloyd fixed another, his thugged-out lil' punk-ass fuckin started searchin his thugged-out lil' pockets fo' a quarta ta put up in tha jukebox yo. Dude thought of Danny again yo, but Danny's grill was pleasantly fuzzed n' nondescript now yo. Dude had hurt Danny once yo, but dat had been before dat schmoooove muthafucka had hustled how tha fuck ta handle his fuckin liquor. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Those minutes was behind his ass now yo. Dude would never hurt Danny again.

Not fo' tha ghetto

Chapta 44. Conversations all up in tha Party
Dude was ridin' dirty wit a funky-ass dope biatch.

Dude had no clue what tha fuck time it was, how tha fuck long dat schmoooove muthafucka had dropped up in tha Colorado Lounge or how tha fuck long dat schmoooove muthafucka had been here up in tha ballroom. Time had ceased ta matter.

Dude had vague memories: listenin ta a playa whoz ass had once been a successful radio comic n' then a variety star up in TV', infant minutes spittin some lyrics ta a straight-up long n' straight-up hilarious joke bout incest between Siamese twins; seein tha biatch up in tha harem baggy-ass pants n' tha sequined bra do a slow n' sinuous striptease ta some bumping-andgrindin noize from tha jukebox (it seemed it had been Dizzy Rose's theme noize from Da Stripper); crossin tha lobby as one of three, tha other two pimps up in evenin dress dat predated tha twenties, all of dem rappin bout tha stiff patch on Rosie O'Grady's knickers yo. Dude seemed ta remember lookin up tha big-ass double doors n' seein Japanese lanterns strung up in graceful, curvin arcs dat followed tha sweep of tha driveway-they gleamed up in soft pastel flavas like dusky jewels. Da big-ass glass globe on tha porch ceilin was on, n' night-insects bumped n' flittered against it, n' a part of him, like tha last tiny spark of sobriety, tried ta tell his ass dat dat shiznit was 6 A. M. on a mornin up in December n' shit. But time had been canceled.

(Da arguments against insanitizzle fall all up in wit a soft shurrin sound/layer on layer...)

Dum diddy-dum, here I come biaaatch! Who tha fuck was that, biatch? Some poet dat schmoooove muthafucka had read as a undergraduate, biatch? Some undergraduate poet whoz ass was now pushin washers up in Wausau or insurizzle up in Indianapolis, biatch? Perhaps a original gangsta thought, biatch? Didn't matter.

(Da night is dark/ tha stars is high/ a gangbangin' finger-lickin' disembodied custard piel is floatin up in tha sky...)

Dude giggled helplessly.

"What's funky, honey?"

And here da thug was again, up in tha ballroom. Da chandelier was lit n' couplez was circlin all round them, some up in costume n' some not, ta tha smooth soundz of some postwar band-but which war, biatch? Yo ass betta be certain?

Fuck dat shit, of course not yo. Dude was certain of only one thang: da thug was ridin' dirty wit a funky-ass dope biatch.

Bitch was tall n' auburn-haired, dressed up in clingin white satin, n' dat biiiiatch was ridin' dirty close ta him, her breasts pressed softly n' dopely against his chest yo. Her white hand was entwined up in his. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch was bustin a lil' small-ass n' sparkly pussaaaaay'seye mask n' her afro had been brushed over ta one side up in a soft n' gleamin fall dat seemed ta pool up in tha valley between they touchin shouldaz yo. Her dress was full-skirted but be could feel her fat-ass thighs against his hairy-ass legs from time ta time n' had become mo' n' mo' shizzle dat dat biiiiatch was smoothand-powdered naked under her dress,

(the betta ta feet yo' erection with, mah dear)

and da thug was sportin a regular railspike. If it offended her dat thugged-out biiiatch concealed it well; her big-ass booty snuggled even closer ta his muthafuckin ass.

"Nothang funky, honey," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, n' giggled again.

"I wanna bust a nut on you," dat biiiiatch whispered, n' tha pimpin' muthafucka thought dat her scent was like lilies, secret n' hidden up in cracks furred wit chronic moss-places where sunshine is short n' shadows long.

"I wanna bust a nut on you, like a muthafucka."

"We could go upstairs, if you want. I'm supposed ta be wit Harry yo, but he'll never notice yo. He's too busy teasin skanky Roger."

Da number ended. There was a spatta of applause n' then tha crew swung tha fuck into "Mood Indigo" wit scarcely a pause.

Jack looked over her bare shoulder n' saw Derwent standin by tha refreshment table. Da hoe up in tha sarong was wit his muthafuckin ass. There was bottlez of champagne up in ice buckets ranged along tha white lawn coverin tha table, n' Derwent held a gangbangin' foamin forty up in his hand. A knot of playas had gathered, laughing. In front of Derwent n' tha hoe up in tha sarong, Roger capered grotesquely on all fours, his cold-ass tail draggin limply behind his muthafuckin ass yo. Dude was barking.

"Speak, boy, speak!" Harry Derwent cried.

"Rowf! Rowf!" Roger responded. Everyone clapped; all dem of tha pimps whistled.

"Now sit up. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Sit up, doggy!"

Roger clambered up on his haunches. Da muzzle of his crazy-ass mask was frozen up in its eternal snarl. Inside tha eyeholes, Roger's eyes rolled wit frantic, sweaty hilaritizzle yo. Dude held his thugged-out arms out, danglin tha paws.

"Rowf! Rowf!"

Derwent upended tha forty of champagne n' it fell tha fuck up in a gangbangin' foamy Niagara onto tha upturned mask. Roger made frantic slurpin sounds, n' mah playas applauded again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Some of tha dem hoes screamed wit laughter.

"Isn't Harry a cold-ass lil card?" his thugged-out lil' partner axed him, pressin close again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. "Everyone say so yo. He's AC/DC, you know. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Skanky Roger's only DC yo. Dude dropped a weekend wit Harry up in Cuba once... oh, months ago. Now he bigs up Harry everywhere, waggin his fuckin lil tail behind his muthafuckin ass."

Bitch giggled. Da shy scent of lilies drifted up.

"But of course Harry never goes back fo' seconds... not on his DC side, anyway... n' Roger is just wild. Harry holla'd at his ass if his schmoooove ass came ta tha maxed bizzle as a thugged-out doggy, a thugged-out lil doggy, he might reconsider, n' Roger is such a wack-ass dat he..."

Da number ended. There was mo' applause. Da crew thugz was filin down fo' a funky-ass break.

"Excuse me, dopeness," her big-ass booty holla'd. "There's one of mah thugs I just roust... Darla! Darla, you dear girl, where have you been?"

Bitch wove her way tha fuck into tha smokin, drankin throng n' he gazed afta her stupidly, wonderin how tha fuck they had happened ta be ridin' dirty together up in tha straight-up original gangsta place yo. Dude didn't remember n' shit. Incidents seemed ta have occurred wit no connections. First here, then there, then everywhere, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho yo. His head was spinnin yo. Dude smelled lilies n' juniper berries. Put ya muthafuckin choppers up if ya feel dis! Up by tha refreshment table Derwent was now holdin a tiny triangular sandwich over Roger's head n' urgin him, ta tha general merriment of tha onlookers, ta do a somersault. Da dogmask was turned upward. Da silver sidez of tha dawg costume bellowsed up in n' out. Roger suddenly leaped, tuckin his head under, n' tried ta roll up in mid-air yo. His leap was too low n' too exhausted; he landed awkwardly on his back, rappin his head smartly on tha tilez fo' realz. A hollow groan drifted outta tha dogmask.

Derwent hustled tha applause. "Try again, doggy dawwwwg! Try again!" Da onlookers took up tha chant-try again, try again- n' Jack staggered off tha other way, feelin vaguely ill.

Dude almost fell tha fuck over tha dranks cart dat was bein wheeled along by a lowbrowed playa up in a white mess jacket yo. His foot rapped tha lower chromed shelf of tha cart; tha bottlez n' siphons on top chattered together musically.

"Sorry," Jack holla'd thickly yo. Dude suddenly felt closed up in n' claustrophobic; da thug wanted ta git up yo. Dude wanted tha Overlook back tha way it had been... free of these unwanted guests yo. His place was not honored, as tha legit opener of tha way; da thug was only another of tha ten thousand cheerin extras, a thugged-out doggy rollin over n' chillin up on command.

"Quite all right," tha playa up in tha white mess jacket holla'd. Da polite, clipped Gangsta comin from dat thug's grill was surreal. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack. "A drink?"

"Martini."

From behind him, another comber of laughta broke; Roger was howlin ta tha tune of "Home on tha Range." Someone was pickin up accompaniment on tha Steinway baby grand.

"Here yo ass is."

Da frosty cold glass was pressed tha fuck into his hand. Jack drank gratefully, feelin tha gin hit n' crumble away tha straight-up original gangsta inroadz of sobriety.

"Is all dat shiznit right, sir?"

"Fine."

"Nuff props, sir." Da cart fuckin started ta roll again.

Jack suddenly reached up n' touched tha dudez shoulder.

"Yes, sir?"

"Pardon me yo, but... what's yo' name?"

Da other flossed no surprise. "Grady, sir. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Delbert Grady."

"But you, biatch... I mean that..."

Da bartender was lookin at his ass politely. Jack tried again, although his crazy-ass grill was mushed by gin n' unreality; each word felt as big-ass as a ice cube.

"Weren't you once tha caretaker here, biatch? When you, biatch..., when..." But his schmoooove ass couldn't finish yo. Dude couldn't say dat shit.

"Why no, sir. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. I don't believe so."

"But yo' hoe... yo' daughters...

"My fuckin hoe is helpin up in tha kitchen, sir. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Da hoes is asleep, of course. It's much too late fo' dem wild-ass muthafuckas."

"Yo ass was tha caretaker n' shit. You-" Oh say dat shiznit son! "Yo ass capped dem wild-ass muthafuckas."

Grady's grill remained blankly polite. "I aint gots any recollection of dat at all, sir." His glass was empty. Grady plucked it from Jack's unresistin fingers n' set bout makin another drank fo' his muthafuckin ass. There was a lil' small-ass white plastic bucket on his cart dat was filled wit olives. For soave reason

they reminded Jack of tiny severed heads. Grady speared one deftly, dropped it tha fuck into tha glass, n' handed it ta his muthafuckin ass.

"But you-"

"You're tha caretaker, sir," Grady holla'd mildly. "You've always been tha caretaker n' shit. I should know, sir. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. I've always been here, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. Da same manager hired our asses both, all up in tha same time. Is all dat shiznit right, sir?"

Jack gulped at his fuckin lil' drink yo. His head was swirling. "Mista Muthafuckin Ullman -"

"I know no one by dat name, sir."

"But he-"

"Da manager," Grady holla'd. "Da hotel, sir. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Surely you realize whoz ass hired you, sir."

"No," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd thickly. "Fuck dat shit, I-"

"I believe you must take it up further wit yo' son, Mista Muthafuckin Torrance, sir yo. Dude understandz every last muthafuckin thang, although dat schmoooove muthafucka hasn't enlightened you, biatch. Rather naughty of him, if I may be all kindsa bold, sir. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. In fact, he's crossed you at almost every last muthafuckin turn, hasn't he, biatch? And his ass not yet six."

"Yes," Jack holla'd. "Dude has." There was another wave of laughta from behind dem wild-ass muthafuckas.

"Dude need ta be erected, if you don't mind mah crazy ass sayin so yo. Dude needz a phat rappin'-to, n' like a lil' bit mo' n' mo' n' mo'. My fuckin own girls, sir, didn't care fo' tha Overpeep first. One of dem straight-up stole a ounce ta tha bounce of mah matches n' tried ta burn it down. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I erected dem wild-ass muthafuckas. I erected dem most harshly fo' realz. And when mah hoe tried ta stop me from bustin mah duty, I erected her muthafuckin ass." Dude offered Jack a funky-ass bland, meaningless smile. "I find it a fucked up but legit fact dat dem hoes rarely KNOW a gangbangin' father's responsibilitizzle ta his fuckin lil' thugs yo. Husbandz n' fathers do have certain responsibilities, don't they, sir?"

"Yes," Jack holla'd.

"They didn't ludd tha Overlook as I did," Grady holla'd, beginnin ta make his ass another drink. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Silver bubblez rose up in tha upended gin bottle. "Just as yo' lil hustla n' hoe don't ludd dat shit. not at present, anyway. But they will come ta ludd dat shit. Yo ass must show dem tha error of they ways, Mista Muthafuckin Torrance. Do you agree?"

"Yes yes y'all. I do."

Dude did peep yo. Dude had been too easy as fuck wit dem wild-ass muthafuckas yo. Husbandz n' fathers did have certain responsibilities. Put ya muthafuckin choppers up if ya feel dis! Father Knows Best. They did not understand. That up in itself was no crime yo, but they was willfully not understandin yo. Dude was not ordinarily a harsh man. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. But da ruffneck did believe up in punishment fo' realz. And if his fuckin lil hustla n' his hoe had willfully set theyselves against his wishes, against tha thangs he knew was dopest fo' them, then didn't dat schmoooove muthafucka gotz a cold-ass lil certain duty-?

"A thankless lil pimp is sharper than a serpent's tooth," Grady holla'd, handin his ass his fuckin lil' drink. "I do believe dat tha manager could brang yo' lil hustla tha fuck into line fo' realz. And yo' hoe would shortly follow. Do you agree, sir?"

Dude was suddenly uncertain. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. "I... but... if they could just muthafuckin bounce... I mean, afta all, it's me tha manager wants, isn't it, biatch? It must be. Because-" Because why, biatch? Dude should know but suddenly da ruffneck didn't. Oh, his skanky dome was swimming.

"Shiznitty dog!" Derwent was sayin loudly, ta a cold-ass lil counterpoint of laughter n' shit. "Shiznitty dawg ta piddle on tha floor."

"Of course you know," Grady holla'd, leanin confidentially over tha cart, "your lil hustla be attemptin ta brang a outside jam tha fuck into dat shit. Yo crazy-ass lil hustla has a straight-up pimped out talent, one dat tha manager could use ta even further improve tha Overlook, ta further... enrich it, shall we say, biatch? But yo' lil hustla be attemptin ta use dat straight-up talent against our asses yo. Dude is willful, Mista Muthafuckin Torrance, Sir. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Willful."

"Outside party?" Jack axed stupidly.

Grady nodded.

"Who?"

"A nizzle," Grady holla'd. "A nizzle cook."

"Hallorann?"

"I believe dat is his name, sir, yes."

Another burst of laughta from behind dem was followed by Roger sayin suttin' up in a whining, protestin voice.

"Yes muthafucka! Yes muthafucka! Yes!" Derwent fuckin started ta chant. Da others round his ass took it up yo, but before Jack could hear what tha fuck they wanted Roger ta do now, tha crew fuckin started ta play again-the tune was "Tuxedo Junction," wit a shitload of mellow sax up in it but not much ass.

(Soul, biatch? Soul hasn't even been invented yet. Or has it?)

(A nizzle... a nizzle cook.)

Dude opened his crazy-ass grill ta speak, not knowin what tha fuck might come out. What did was:

"I was holla'd at you hadn't finished high school. But you don't rap like a uneducated man."

"It's legit dat I left organized ejaculation straight-up early, sir. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. But tha manager takes care of his help yo. Dude findz dat it pays. Ejaculation always pays, don't you agree, sir?"

"Yes," Jack holla'd dazedly.

"For instance, you show a pimped out interest up in peepin' mo' bout tha Overlook Hotel. Straight-up wise of you, sir. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Straight-up noble fo' realz. A certain scrapbook was left up in tha basement fo' you ta find-"

"By whom?" Jack axed eagerly.

"By tha manager, of course. Certain other shiznit could be put at yo' disposal, if you wished dem wild-ass muthafuckas... "

"I do. Straight-up much." Dude tried ta control tha eagernizz up in his voice n' failed miserably.

"You're a legit scholar," Grady holla'd. "Pursue tha topic ta tha end yo, but it ain't no stoppin cause I be still poppin'. Exhaust all sources." Dude dipped his fuckin low-browed head, pulled up tha lapel of his white mess jacket, n' buffed his knucklez at a spot of dirt dat was invisible ta Jack.

"And tha manager puts no strings on his fuckin largess," Grady went on. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. "Not at all. Look at me, a tenth-grade dropout Think how tha fuck much further you yo ass could go up in tha Overlooks organizationizzle structure. Perhaps... up in time... ta tha straight-up top."

"Really?" Jack whispered.

"But that's straight-up up ta yo' lil hustla ta decide, isn't it?" Grady asked, raisin his wild lil' fuckin eyebrows. Da delicate gesture went oddly wit tha brows theyselves, which was bushy n' somehow savage.

"Up ta Danny?" Jack frowned at Grady. "Fuck dat shit, of course not. I wouldn't allow mah lil hustla ta make decisions concernin mah game n' shit. Not at all. What do you take me for, biatch? "

"A dedicated dude," Grady holla'd warmly. "Perhaps I put it badly, sir. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Let our asses say dat yo' future here is contingent upon how tha fuck you decizzle ta deal wit yo' son's waywardness."

"I make mah own decisions," Jack whispered.

"But you must deal wit his muthafuckin ass."

"I will."

"Firmly "

"I will."

"A playa whoz ass cannot control his own crew holdz straight-up lil interest fo' our manager n' shiznit fo' realz. A playa whoz ass cannot guide tha coursez of his own hoe n' lil hustla can hardly be sposed ta fuckin guide his dirty ass, let ridin' solo assume a posizzle of responsibilitizzle up in a operation of dis magnitude yo. He-"

"I holla'd I'll handle him!" Jack shouted suddenly, enraged.

"Tuxedo Junction" had just concluded n' a freshly smoked up tune hadn't begun. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. His shout fell tha fuck perfectly tha fuck into tha gap, n' conversation suddenly ceased behind his muthafuckin ass yo. His skin suddenly felt bangin' all over n' shiznit yo. Dude became fixedly positizzle dat mah playas was starin at his muthafuckin ass. They had finished wit Roger n' would now commence wit his muthafuckin ass. Roll over n' shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Sit up. Play dead as fuckin fried chicken. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. If you play tha game wit us, we'll play tha game wit you, biatch. Posizzle of responsibility. They wanted his ass ta sacrifice his son.

(-Now he bigs up Harry everywhere, waggin his fuckin lil tail behind him-)

(Roll over n' shit. Play dead as fuckin fried chicken. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Chastise yo' son.)

"Right dis way, sir," Grady was saying. "Somethang dat might interest you, biatch."

Da conversation had begun again, liftin n' droppin up in its own rhythm, weavin up in n' outta tha crew beatz, now bustin a swin version of Lennon n' McCartney's "Ticket ta Ride."

(I've heard betta over supermarket loudspeakers.)

Dude giggled foolishly yo. Dude looked down at his fuckin left hand n' saw there was another drank up in it, half-full yo. Dude emptied it at a gulp.

Now da thug was standin up in front of tha mantelpiece, tha heat from tha cracklin fire dat shitty been laid up in tha hearth warmin his fuckin legs.

(a fire?... up in August?... yes... n' no... all times is one)

There was a cold-ass lil clock under a glass dome, flanked by two carved ivory elephants, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. Its handz stood at a minute ta midnight yo. Dude gazed at it blearily yo. Had dis been what tha fuck Grady wanted his ass ta see, biatch? Dude turned round ta ask yo, but Grady had left his muthafuckin ass.

Halfway all up in "Ticket ta Ride," tha crew wound up in a funky-ass brassy flourish.

"Da minute be at hand!" Horace Derwent proclaimed. "Midnight son! Unmask! Unmask!"

Dude tried ta turn again, ta peep what tha fuck hyped faces was hidden beneath tha glitta n' paint n' masks yo, but da thug was frozen now, unable ta look away from tha clock-its handz had come together n' pointed straight up.

"Unmask! Unmask!" tha chant went up.

Da clock fuckin started ta chime delicately fo' realz. Along tha steel runner below tha clockface, from tha left n' right, two figures advanced. Jack peeped it, fascinated, tha unmaskin forgotten. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Clockwork whirred. Cogs turned n' meshed, brass warmly glowing. Da balizzle wheel rocked back n' forth precisely.

One of tha figures was a playa standin on tiptoe, wit what tha fuck looked like a tiny club clasped up in his hands. Da other was a lil' small-ass pimp bustin a thugged-out dunce cap. Da clockwork figures glittered, dunkadelically precise fo' realz. Across tha front of tha boy's dunce cap his schmoooove ass could read tha engraved word FOOLE.

Da two figures slipped onto tha opposin endz of a steel axis bar. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Somewhere, tinklin on n' on, was tha strainz of a Strauss waltz fo' realz. An crazy commercial jingle fuckin started ta run all up in his crazy-ass mind ta tha tune: Loot dawg chicken, rowf-rowf, rowfrowf, loot dawg chicken n' you know I be eatin up dat shizzle all muthafuckin day, biatch...

Da steel mallet up in tha clockwork daddy's handz came down on tha boy's head. Da clockwork lil hustla crumpled forward. Da mallet rose n' fell, rose n' fell. Da boy's upstretched, protestin handz fuckin started ta falter n' shit. Da pimp sagged from his crouch ta a prone position. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. And still tha hammer rose n' fell tha fuck ta tha light, tinklin air of tha Strauss melody, n' it seemed dat his schmoooove ass could peep tha dudez face, hustlin n' knottin n' constricting, could peep tha clockwork daddy's grill openin n' closin as his thugged-out lil' punk-ass berated tha unconscious, bludgeoned figure of tha son.

A spot of red flew up against tha inside of tha glass dome.

Another followed. Two mo' splattered beside dat shit.

Now tha red liquid was sprayin up like a obscene drizzle shower, strikin tha glass sidez of tha dome n' hustlin, obscurin what tha fuck was goin on inside, n' flecked all up in tha scarlet was tiny gray ribbonz of tissue, fragmentz of bone n' dome. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. And still his schmoooove ass could peep tha hammer risin n' fallin as tha clockwork continued ta turn n' tha cogs continued ta mesh tha gears n' teeth of dis cunningly made machine.

"Unmask! Unmask!" Derwent was shriekin behind him, n' somewhere a thugged-out dawg was howlin up in human tones.

(But clockwork can't bleed clockwork can't bleed)

Da entire dome was splashed wit blood, his schmoooove ass could peep clotted bitz of afro but not a god damn thang else give props ta Dogg his schmoooove ass could peep not a god damn thang else, n' still tha pimpin' muthafucka thought da thug would be sick cuz his schmoooove ass could hear tha hammerblows still falling, could hear dem all up in tha glass just as his schmoooove ass could hear tha phrasez of "Da Blue Danube." But tha soundz was no longer tha mechanical tink-tink-tink noisez of a mechanical hammer strikin a mechanical head yo, but tha soft n' squashy thuddin soundz of a real hammer slicin down n' whackin tha fuck into a spongy, muddy ruin. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. A fuck up dat once had been-

"UNMASK!"

(-the Red Dirtnap held sway over all!)

With a miserable, risin scream, tha pimpin' muthafucka turned away from tha clock, his handz outstretched, his wild lil' feet stumblin against one another like wooden blocks as his thugged-out lil' punk-ass begged dem ta stop, ta take him, Danny, Wendy, ta take tha whole ghetto if they wanted it yo, but only ta stop n' leave his ass a lil sanity, a lil light.

Da ballroom was empty.

Da chairs wit they spindly hairy-ass legs was upended on tablez covered wit plastic dust drops. Da red rug wit its golden tracings was back on tha dizzle floor, protectin tha polished hardwood surface. Da bandstand was deserted except fo' a gangbangin' finger-lickin' disassembled microphone stand n' a thugged-out dusty boombox leanin stringless against tha wall. Cold mornin light, winterlight, fell tha fuck languidly all up in tha high windows.

His head was still reeling, da perved-out muthafucka still felt faded yo, but when tha pimpin' muthafucka turned back ta tha mantelpiece, his fuckin lil' drank was gone. There was only tha ivory elephants... n' tha clock.

Dude stumbled back across tha cold, shadowy lobby n' all up in tha dinin room yo. His foot hooked round a table leg n' he fell tha fuck full-length, upsettin tha table wit a cold-ass lil clatter n' shiznit yo. Dude struck his nozzle hard on tha floor n' it fuckin started ta bleed. Dude gots up, snufin back blood n' wipin his nozzle wit tha back of his hand. Dude crossed ta tha Colorado Lounge n' shoved all up in tha batwin doors, makin dem fly back n' bang tha fuck into tha walls.

Da place was empty... but tha bar was straight-up stocked:. Dogg be praised hommie! Glass n' tha silver edgin on labels glowed warmly up in tha dark.

Once, he remembered, a straight-up long time ago, dat schmoooove muthafucka had been mad salty dat there was no backbar mirror. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Now da thug was glad. Lookin tha fuck into it da thug would have peeped just another faded fresh off tha wagon: bloody nose, untucked shirt, afro rumpled, cheeks stubbly.

(This is what tha fuck it's like ta stick yo' whole hand tha fuck into tha nest.)

Lonelinizz surged over his ass suddenly n' straight-up yo. Dude cried up wit sudden wretchednizz n' straight-up wished da thug was dead as fuckin fried chicken. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. His hoe n' lil hustla was upstairs wit tha door locked against his muthafuckin ass. Da others shitty all left. Da jam was over.

Dude lurched forward again, reachin tha bar.

"Lloyd, where tha fuck is yo slick ass?" da perved-out muthafucka screamed.

There was no answer n' shit. In dis well-padded

(cell)

room, his fuckin lyrics did not even echo back ta give tha illusion of company.

"Grady!"

No answer n' shit. Only tha bottles, standin stiffly at attention.

(Roll over n' shit. Play dead as fuckin fried chicken. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Fetch. Play dead as fuckin fried chicken. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Sit up. Play dead as fuckin fried chicken.)

"Never mind, I'll do it mah dirty ass, goddammit."

Halfway over tha bar he lost his balizzle n' pitched forward, hittin his head a muffled blow on tha floor yo. Dude gots up on his handz n' knees, his wild lil' fuckin eyeballs movin disjointed from side ta side, fuzzy mutterin soundz comin from his crazy-ass grill. Then his schmoooove ass collapsed, his wild lil' grill turned ta one side, breathang up in harsh snores.

Outside, tha wind whooped louder, rollin tha thickenin snow before dat shit. Dat shiznit was 8:30 A.M.

Chapta 45. Stapleton Airport, Denver
At 8:31 A. M., MST, a biatch on TWA's Flight 196 burst tha fuck into tears n' fuckin started ta bugle her own opinion, which was like not unshared among a shitload of tha other passengers (or even tha crew, fo' dat matter), dat tha plane was goin ta crash.

Da sharp-faced biatch next ta Hallorann looked up from her book n' offered a funky-ass brief characta analysis: "Ninny," n' went back ta her book. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch had downed two screwdrivers durin tha flight yo, but they seemed not ta have thawed her at all.

"It's goin ta crash!" tha biatch was bustin up like a biatch up shrilly. "Oh, I just know it is!"

A stewardess hurried ta her seat n' squatted beside her n' shiznit yo. Hallorann thought ta his dirty ass dat only stewardesses n' straight-up lil' housewives seemed able ta squat wit any degree of grace; dat shiznit was a rare n' straight-up dope talent yo. Dude thought bout dis while tha stewardess talked softly n' soothingly ta tha biatch, on tha fuckin' down-lowin her bit by bit.

Hallorann didn't know bout any suckas on 196 yo, but he personally was almost scared enough ta shiznit peachpits, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. Outside tha window there was not a god damn thang ta be peeped but a funky-ass buffetin curtain of white. Da plane rocked sickeningly from side ta side wit gusts dat seemed ta come from everywhere, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. Da engines was cranked up ta provide partial compensation n' as a result tha floor was vibratin under they Nikes. There was nuff muthafuckin playas beatboxin up in Tourist behind them, one stew had gone back wit a handful of fresh airsick bags, n' a playa three rows up in front of Hallorann had whoopsed tha fuck into his Nationizzle Observer n' had grinned apologetically all up in tha stewardess whoz ass came ta help his ass clean up. "That's all right," dat thugged-out biiiatch comforted him, "that's how tha fuck I feel bout tha Reader's Digest."

Hallorann had flown enough ta be able ta surmise what tha fuck had happened. They had been flyin against shitty headwindz most of tha way, tha drizzle over Denver had worsened suddenly n' unexpectedly, n' now dat shiznit was just a lil late ta divert fo' someplace where tha drizzle was mo' betta n' shit. Feets don't fail me now, nahmeean?

(Buddy-boy, dis is some fucked-up cavalry charge.)

Da stewardess seemed ta have succeeded up in curbin da most thugged-out shitty of tha biatch's hysterics. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch was snufflin n' honkin tha fuck into a lace handkerchizzle yo, but had ceased broadcastin her opinions bout tha flight's possible conclusion ta tha cabin at large. Da stew gave her a gangbangin' final pat on tha shoulder n' stood up just as tha 747 gave its most shitty lurch yet. Da stewardess stumbled backward n' landed up in tha lap of tha playa whoz ass had whoopsed tha fuck into his thugged-out lil' paper, exposin a ghettofab length of nyloned thigh. Da playa blinked n' then patted her kindly on tha shoulder n' shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch smiled back yo, but Hallorann thought tha strain was showing. Well shiiiit, it had been one hell of a hard flight dis morning.

There was a lil pin as tha No SMOKING light reappeared.

"This is tha captain bustin lyrics," a soft, slightly southern voice informed dem wild-ass muthafuckas. "We're locked n loaded ta begin our descent ta Stapleton Internationistic Airport. It's been a rough flight, fo' which I apologize. Da landin may be a lil' bit rough also yo, but we anticipate no real difficulty. Please observe tha FASTEN SEAT BELTS n' NO SMOKING signs, n' our crazy asses hope you trip off yo' stay up in tha Denver metro area fo' realz. And we also hope-"

Another hard bump rocked tha plane n' then dropped her wit a sickenin elevator plunge yo. Hallorann's stomach did a queasy hornpipe. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Several people-not all dem hoes by any means-screamed.

"-that we'll peep you again n' again n' again on another TWA flight real soon."

"Not bloody likely," one of mah thugs behind Hallorann holla'd.

"So silly," tha sharp-faced biatch next ta Hallorann remarked, puttin a matchbook cover tha fuck into her book n' shuttin it as tha plane fuckin started ta descend yo, but it ain't no stoppin cause I be still poppin'. "When one has peeped tha horrorz of a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty lil war... as you have... or sensed tha degradin immoralitizzle of CIA dollar-diplomacy intervention... as I have... a rough landin palez tha fuck into insignificizzle fo' realz. Am I right, Mista Muthafuckin yo. Hallorann, biatch? "

"As rain, ma'am," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, n' looked bleakly up tha fuck into tha wildly blowin snow.

"How tha fuck is yo' steel plate reactin ta all of this, if I might inquire?"

"Oh, mah head's fine," Hallorann holla'd. "It's just mah stomach that's a mite queasy."

"A shame." Biatch reopened her book.

As they descended all up in tha impenetrable cloudz of snow, Hallorann thought of a cold-ass lil crash dat had occurred at Boston's Logan Airport all dem muthafuckin years ago. Da conditions had been similar, only fog instead of snow had reduced visibilitizzle ta zero. Da plane had caught its undercarriage on a retainin wall near tha end of tha landin strip. What had been left of tha eighty-nine playas aboard hadn't looked much different from a Hamburger Helper casserole.

Dude wouldn't mind so much if dat shiznit was just his dirty ass yo. Dude was pretty much ridin' solo up in tha ghetto now, n' attendizzle at his wild lil' funeral would be mostly held down ta tha playas dat schmoooove muthafucka had hit dat shiznit wit n' dat oldschool renegade Masterton, whoz ass would at least drank ta his muthafuckin ass. But tha boy... tha pimp was dependin on his muthafuckin ass yo. Dude was maybe all tha help dat lil pimp could expect, n' da ruffneck didn't like tha way tha boy's last call had been snapped off yo. Dude kept thankin of tha way dem hedge muthafuckas had seemed ta move...

A thin white hand rocked up over his.

Da biatch wit tha sharp grill had taken off her glasses. Without dem her features seemed much softer.

"It is ghon be all right," her big-ass booty holla'd.

Hallorann done cooked up a smile n' nodded.

As advertised tha plane came down hard, reunitin wit tha earth forcefully enough ta knock most of tha magazines outta tha rack all up in tha front n' ta bust plastic trays cascadin outta tha galley like oversized playin cards. No one screamed yo, but Hallorann heard nuff muthafuckin setz of teeth clickin violently together like gypsy castanets.

Then tha turbine engines rose ta a howl, brakin tha plane, n' as they dropped up in volume tha pilot's soft southern voice, like not straight-up steady, came over tha intercom system. "Ladies n' gentlemen, our crazy asses have landed at Stapleton Airport. Please remain up in yo' seats until tha plane has come ta a cold-ass lil complete stop all up in tha terminal. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack. Nuff props, biatch."

Da biatch beside Hallorann closed her book n' uttered a long-ass sigh. "We live ta fight another day, Mista Muthafuckin yo. Hallorann."

"Ma'am, we aren't done wit dis one, yet."

"True. Straight-up true. Would you care ta git a thugged-out drank up in tha lounge wit me son?"

"I would yo, but I gots a appointment ta keep."

"Pressing?"

"Straight-up pressing," Hallorann holla'd gravely.

"Somethang dat will improve tha general thang up in some lil' small-ass way, I hope."

"I hope so too," Hallorann holla'd, n' smiled. Biatch smiled back at him, ten muthafuckin years droppin silently from her grill as her dope ass did so.

Because dat schmoooove muthafucka had only tha flight bag he'd carried fo' luggage, Hallorann beat tha crowd ta tha Hertz desk on tha lower level. Outside tha smoked glass windows his schmoooove ass could peep tha snow still fallin steadily. Da gustin wind drove white cloudz of it back n' forth, n' tha playas struttin across ta tha parkin area was strugglin against dat shit. One playa lost his basebizzle cap n' Hallorann could commiserate wit his ass as it whirled high, wide, n' thugged-out. Da playa stared afta it n' Hallorann thought:

(Aw, just forget it, man. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. That homburg ain't comin down until it gets ta Arizona.)

On tha heelz of dat thought:

(If it's dis shitty up in Denver, what's it goin ta be like westside of Boulder?)

Best not ta be thinkin bout that, maybe.

"Can I help you, sir?" a hoe up in Hertz yellow axed his muthafuckin ass.

"If you gots a cold-ass lil car, you can help me," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd wit a funky-ass big-ass grin.

For a heavier-than-average charge da thug was able ta git a heavier-than-average car, a silver n' black Buick Electra yo. Dude was thankin of tha windin mountain roadz rather than style; da thug would still gotta stop somewhere along tha way n' git chains put on. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude wouldn't git far without dem wild-ass muthafuckas.

"How tha fuck shitty is it?" he axed as dat freaky freaky biatch handed his ass tha rental agreement ta sign.

"They say it's da most thugged-out shitty storm since 1969," she answered brightly. "Do you have far ta drive, sir?"

"Farther than I'd like."

"If you'd like, sir, I can beeper ahead ta tha Texaco station all up in tha Route 270 junction. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. They'll put chains on fo' you, biatch. '

"That would be a pimped out blessing, dear."

Bitch picked up tha beeper n' made tha call. "They'll be expectin you, biatch."

"Nuff props much."

Leavin tha desk, da perved-out muthafucka saw tha sharp-faced biatch standin on one of tha queues dat had formed up in front of tha luggage carousel. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch was still readin her book yo. Hallorann winked at her as da thug went by. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch looked up, smiled at him, n' gave his ass a peace sign.

(shine)

Dude turned up his overcoat collar, smiling, n' shifted his wild lil' flight bag ta tha other hand. Only a lil one yo, but it made his ass feel mo' betta n' shiznit yo. Dude was sorry he'd holla'd at her dat fish rap bout havin a steel plate up in his head. Dude menstrually wished her well n' as da thug went up tha fuck into tha howlin wind n' snow, tha pimpin' muthafucka thought dat biiiiatch wished his ass tha same up in return

Da charge fo' puttin on tha chains all up in tha steez station was a modest one yo, but Hallorann slipped tha playa at work up in tha garage bay a extra ten ta git moved up a lil way on tha waitin list. Dat shiznit was still quarta of ten before da thug was straight-up on tha road, tha windshield wipers clickin n' tha chains clinkin wit tuneless monotony on tha Buick's big-ass wheels.

Da turnpike was a mess. Even wit tha chains his schmoooove ass could go no fasta than thirty. Whips had gone off tha road at wild-ass angles, n' on nuff muthafuckin of tha grades traffic was barely strugglin along, summer tires spinnin helplessly up in tha driftin powder n' shit. Dat shiznit was tha straight-up original gangsta big-ass storm of tha winta down here up in tha lowlandz (if you could call a mile above sealevel "low"), n' dat shiznit was a mutha n' shit. Many of dem was unprepared, common enough yo, but Hallorann still found his dirty ass cursin dem as he inched round them, peerin tha fuck into his snow-clogged outside mirror ta be shizzle not a god damn thang was

(Dashin all up in tha snow...)

comin up in tha left-hand lane ta cream his black ass.

There was mo' shitty luck waitin fo' his ass all up in tha Route 36 entrizzle ramp. Route 36, tha Denver-Boulder turnpike, also goes westside ta Estes Park, where it connects wit Route 7. That road, also known as tha Upland Highway, goes all up in Sidewinder, passes tha Overlook Hotel, n' finally windz down tha Westside Slope n' tha fuck into Utah.

Da entrizzle ramp had been blocked by a overturned semi. Bright-burnin flares had been scattered round it like birthdizzle candlez on some idiot child's cake.

Dude came ta a stop n' rolled his window down. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. A cop wit a gangbangin' fur Cossack basebizzle cap jammed down over his wild lil' fuckin ears gestured wit one gloved hand toward tha flow of traffic movin uptown on I-25.

"Yo ass can't git up herel" his thugged-out lil' punk-ass bawled ta Hallorann over tha wind. "Go down two exits, git on 91, n' hook tha fuck up wit 36 at Broomfield!"

"I be thinkin I could git round his ass on tha left!" Hallorann shouted back. "That's twenty milez outta mah way, what tha fuck you're rappin!"

"I'll rap yo' friggin head!" tha cop shouted back. "This ramp's closed!"

Hallorann backed up, waited fo' a funky-ass break up in traffic, n' continued on his way up Route 25. Da signs informed his ass dat shiznit was only a hundred milez ta Cheyenne, Wyoming. If da ruffneck didn't stay locked n' loaded fo' his bangin ramp, he'd wind up there.

Dude inched his speed up ta thirty-five but dared no more; already snow was threatenin ta clog his wiper blades n' tha traffic patterns was decidedly crazy. Twenty-mile detour yo. Dude cursed, n' tha feelin dat time was growin shorta fo' tha pimp welled up in his ass again, nearly suffocatin wit its urgency fo' realz. And all up in tha same time he felt a gangbangin' fatalistic certainty dat da thug would not be comin back from dis trip.

Dude turned on tha radio, dialed past Chrizzle ads, n' found a thugged-out drizzle forecast.

"-six inches already, n' another foot is expected up in tha Denver metro area by nightfall. Local n' state five-o urge you not ta take yo' hoopty outta tha garage unless it's straight-up necessary, n' warn dat most mountain passes have already been closed. So stay home n' wax up yo' boardz n' keep tuned to-"

"Thanks, mother," Hallorann holla'd, n' turned tha radio off savagely.

Chapta 46. Wendy
Around noon, afta Danny had gone tha fuck into tha bathroom ta use tha toilet, Wendy took tha towel-wrapped knife from under her pillow, put it up in tha pocket of her bathrobe, n' went over ta tha bathroom door.

"Danny?"

"What?"

"I'm goin down ta make our asses some lunch. 'Kay?"

"Okay. Do you want me ta come down?"

"Fuck dat shit, I'll brang it up yo. How tha fuck on some cold-ass lil cheese omelet n' some soup?"

"Sure."

Bitch hesitated outside tha closed door a moment longer, "Danny, is you shizzle it's all gravy?"

"Yeah," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. "Just be careful."

"Where's yo' father, biatch? Do you know?"

His voice came back, curiously flat: "No. But it's all gravy." Biatch stifled a urge ta keep asking, ta keep pickin round tha edgez of tha thang. Da thang was there, they knew what tha fuck it was, pickin at dat shiznit was only goin ta frighten Danny more... n' her muthafuckin ass. Jack had lost his crazy-ass mind. They had sat together on Danny's cot as tha storm fuckin started ta pick up clout n' meannizz round eight o'clock dis mornin n' had listened ta his ass downstairs, bellowin n' stumblin from one place ta another n' shit. Most of it had seemed ta come from tha ballroom. Jack rappin tuneless bitz of song, Jack holdin up one side of a argument, Jack beatboxin loudly at one point, freezin both of they faces as they stared tha fuck into one another's eyes. Finally they had heard his ass stumblin back across tha lobby, n' Wendy thought dat freaky freaky biatch had heard a funky-ass bangin bangin noise, as if dat schmoooove muthafucka had fallen down or pushed a thugged-out door violently open. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Since eightthirty or so-three n' a half minutes now-there had been only silence.

Bitch went down tha short hall, turned tha fuck into tha main first floor corridor, n' went ta tha stairs. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch stood on tha firstfloor landin lookin down tha fuck into tha lobby. Well shiiiit, it rocked up deserted yo, but tha gray n' snowy dizzle had left much of tha long room up in shadow. Danny could be wrong. Jack could be behind a cold-ass lil chair or couch... maybe behind tha registration desk... waitin fo' her ta come down,...

Bitch wet her lips. "Jack?"

No answer.

Her hand found tha handle of tha knife n' da hoe fuckin started ta go down. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch had peeped tha end of her marriage nuff times, up in divorce, up in Jack's dirtnap all up in tha scene of a thugged-out fadeden hoopty accident (a regular vision up in tha dark two o'clock of Stovington mornings), n' occasionally up in daydreamz of bein discovered by another dude, a soap opera Galahad whoz ass would sweep Danny n' her onto tha saddle of his snowwhite charger n' take dem away. But dat freaky freaky biatch had never envisioned her muthafuckin ass prowlin halls n' staircases like a straight-up trippin felon, wit a knife clasped up in one hand ta use against Jack.

A wave of despair struck all up in her all up in tha thought n' dat freaky freaky biatch had ta stop halfway down tha stairs n' hold tha railing, afraid her knees would buckle.

(Admit dat shit. Well shiiiit, it isn't just Jack, he's just tha one solid thang up in all of dis you can hang tha other thangs on, tha thangs you can't believe n' yet is bein forced ta believe, dat thang bout tha hedges, tha jam favor up in tha elevator, tha mask)

Bitch tried ta stop tha thought but dat shiznit was too late.

(and tha voices.)

Because from time ta time it had not seemed dat there was a solitary wild-ass playa below them, shoutin at n' holdin rap battlez wit tha phantoms up in his own crumblin mind. From time ta time, like a radio signal fadin up in n' out, dat freaky freaky biatch had heard-or thought dat freaky freaky biatch had-other voices, n' beatz, n' laughter n' shiznit fo' realz. At one moment dat biiiiatch would hear Jack holdin a cold-ass lil conversation wit one of mah thugs named Grady (the name was vaguely familiar ta her but she made no actual connection), makin statements n' askin thangs tha fuck into silence, yet bustin lyrics loudly, as if ta make his dirty ass heard over a steady background racket fo' realz. And then, eerily, other soundz would be there, seemin ta slip tha fuck into places-a dizzle crew, playas clapping, a playa wit a amused yet authoritatizzle voice whoz ass seemed ta be tryin ta persuade some muthafucka ta cook up a speech. For a period of thirty secondz ta a minute dat biiiiatch would hear this, long enough ta grow faint wit terror, n' then it would be gone again n' again n' again n' dat biiiiatch would only hear Jack, poppin' off up in dat commandin yet slightly slurred way she remembered as his fuckin lil' faded-speak voice. But there was not a god damn thang up in tha hotel ta drank except cookin sherry. Wasn't dat right, biatch? Yes yo, but if dat thugged-out biiiatch could imagine dat tha hotel was full of voices n' beatz, couldn't Jack imagine dat da thug was faded?

Bitch didn't like dat thought. Not at all.

Wendy reached tha lobby n' looked around. Da velvet rope dat had cordoned off tha ballroom had been taken down; tha steel post it had been clipped ta had been knocked over, as if one of mah thugs had carelessly bumped it goin by. Mellow white light fell tha fuck all up in tha open door onto tha lobby rug from tha ballroom's high, narrow windows yo. Heart thumping, dat biiiiatch went ta tha open ballroom doors n' looked in. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Dat shiznit was empty n' silent, tha only sound dat curious subaural echo dat seems ta linger up in all big-ass rooms, from tha phattest cathedral ta tha smallest hometown bingo parlor.

Bitch went back ta tha registration desk n' stood undecided fo' a moment, listenin ta tha wind howl outside. Dat shiznit was da most thugged-out shitty storm so far, n' dat shiznit was still buildin up force. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Somewhere on tha westside side a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shutta latch had fucked up n' tha shutta banged back n' forth wit a steady flat crackin sound, like a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass blastin gallery wit only one hustla.

(Jack, you straight-up should take care of dis shit. Before suttin' gets in.)

What would her dope ass do if his schmoooove ass came at her up in dis biatch, dat biiiiatch wondered. If da perved-out muthafucka should pop up from behind tha dark, varnished registration desk wit its pile of triplicate forms n' its lil silver-plated bell, like some murderous jack-in-the-box, pun intended, a grinnin jack-in-the-box wit a cold-ass lil cleaver up in one hand n' no sense at all left behind his wild lil' fuckin eyes. Would her big-ass booty stand frozen wit terror, or was there enough of tha primal mutha up in her ta fight his ass fo' her lil hustla until one of dem was dead, biatch? Biatch didn't know. Da straight-up thought made her sickmade her feel dat her whole game had been a long-ass n' easy as fuck trip ta lull her helplessly tha fuck into dis wakin nightmare. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch was soft. When shiznit came, her big-ass booty slept yo. Her past was unremarkable. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch had never been tried up in fire. Now tha trial was upon her, not fire but ice, n' dat biiiiatch would not be allowed ta chill all up in all dis bullshit yo. Her lil hustla was waitin fo' her upstairs.

Clutchin tha haft of tha knife tighter, she peered over tha desk.

Nothang there.

Her relieved breath escaped her up in a long, hitchin sigh.

Bitch put tha gate up n' went through, pausin ta glizzle tha fuck into tha inner crib before goin up in her muthafuckin ass. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch fumbled all up in tha next door fo' tha bank of kitchen light switches, coldly expectin a hand ta close over hers at any second. Then tha fluorescents was comin on wit minuscule tickin n' hummin soundz n' dat thugged-out biiiatch could peep Mista Muthafuckin yo. Hallorann's kitchen-her kitchen now, fo' betta or worse-pale chronic tiles, gleamin Formica, spotless porcelain, glowin chrome edgings. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch had promised his ass dat biiiiatch would keep his kitchen clean, n' dat freaky freaky biatch had. Biatch felt as if dat shiznit was one of Danny's safe places. Dick Hallorann's presence seemed ta enfold n' comfort her n' shit. Danny had called fo' Mista Muthafuckin yo. Hallorann, n' upstairs, chillin next ta Danny up in fear as her homeboy ranted n' raved below, dat had seemed like tha faintest of all hopes. But standin here, up in Mista Muthafuckin yo. Hallorann's place, it seemed almost possible. Perhaps da thug was on his way now, intent on gettin ta dem regardless of tha storm. Perhaps dat shiznit was so.

Bitch went across ta tha pantry, blasted tha bolt back, n' stepped inside. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch gots a cold-ass lil can of tomato chronic n' closed tha pantry door again, n' bolted dat shit. Da door was tight against tha floor. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. If you kept it bolted, you didn't gotta worry bout rat or mouse droppings up in tha rice or flour or sugar.

Bitch opened tha can n' dropped tha slightly jellied contents tha fuck into a saucepanplop. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch went ta tha refrigerator n' gots gin n juice n' eggs fo' tha omelet. Then ta tha strutt-in freezer fo' cheese n' you can put dat on yo' toast fo' realz. All of these actions, so common n' so much a part of her game before tha Overlook had been a part of her game, helped ta calm her muthafuckin ass.

Bitch melted butta up in tha fryin pan, diluted tha chronic wit milk, n' then poured tha beaten eggs tha fuck into tha pan.

A sudden feelin dat one of mah thugs was standin behind her, reachin fo' her throat.

Bitch wheeled around, clutchin tha knife. No one there.

(! Git ahold of yo ass, girl!)

Bitch grated a funky-ass bowl of cheese from tha block, added it ta tha omelet, flipped it, n' turned tha gas rang down ta a funky-ass bare blue flame. Da chronic was hot. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch put tha pot on a big-ass tray wit silverware, two bowls, two plates, tha salt n' pepper shakers. When tha omelet had puffed slightly, Wendy slid it off onto one of tha plates n' covered dat shit.

(Now back tha way you came. Turn off tha kitchen lights, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. Go all up in tha inner crib. Through tha desk gate, collect two hundred dollars.)

Bitch stopped on tha lobby side of tha registration desk n' set tha tray down beside tha silver bell. Unrealitizzle would stretch only so far; dis was like some surreal game of hideand-seek.

Bitch stood up in tha shadowy lobby, frownin up in thought.

(Don't push tha facts away dis time, girl. There is certain realities, as lunatic as dis thang may seem. One of dem is dat you may be tha only responsible thug left up in dis grotesque pile. Yo ass gotz a gangbangin' five-going-on-six lil hustla ta stay locked n' loaded fo' fo' realz. And yo' homeboy, whatever has happened ta his ass n' no matta how tha fuck fucked up he may be... maybe he's part of yo' responsibility, like a muthafucka fo' realz. And even if he isn't consider this: Todizzle is December second. Yo ass could be stuck up here another four months if a ranger don't happen by. Even if they do start ta wonder why they haven't heard from our asses on tha CB, no one is goin ta come todizzle... or tomorrow... maybe not fo' weeks. Is you goin ta spend a month sneakin down ta git meals wit a knife up in yo' pocket n' jumpin at every last muthafuckin shadow, biatch? Do you straight-up be thinkin you can stay tha fuck away from Jack fo' a month, biatch? Do you be thinkin you can keep Jack outta tha upstairs quartas if da thug wants ta git in, biatch? Dude has tha passkey n' one hard kick would snap tha bolt.)

Leavin tha tray on tha desk, dat biiiiatch strutted slowly down ta tha dinin room n' looked in. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Dat shiznit was deserted. This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. There was one table wit tha chairs set up round it, tha table they had tried smokin at until tha dinin room's emptinizz fuckin started ta freak dem out.

"Jack?" dat thugged-out biiiatch called hesitantly.

At dat moment tha wind rose up in a gust, rollin snow against tha shuttas yo, but it seemed ta her dat there had been somethang fo' realz. A muffled sort of groan.

"Jack?"

No returnin sound dis time yo, but her eyes fell tha fuck on suttin' beneath tha batwin doorz of tha Colorado Lounge, suttin' dat gleamed faintly up in tha subdued light. Jack's blunt lighter.

Pluckin up her courage, dat thugged-out biiiatch crossed ta tha batwings n' pushed dem open. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da smell of gin was so phat dat her breath snagged up in her throat. Well shiiiit, it wasn't even right ta booty-call it a smell; dat shiznit was a positizzle reek. But tha shelves was empty. Where up in God's name had he found it, biatch? A forty hidden all up in tha back of one of tha cupboards, biatch? Where?

There was another groan, low n' fuzzy yo, but perfectly audible dis time. Wendy strutted slowly ta tha bar.

"Jack?"

No answer.

Bitch looked over tha bar n' there da thug was, sprawled up on tha floor up in a stupor. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Drunk as a lord, by tha smell yo. Dude must have tried ta go right over tha top n' lost his balizzle fo' realz. A wonder dat schmoooove muthafucka hadn't fucked up his neck fo' realz. An oldschool proverb recurred ta her: Dogg looks afta fadedz n' lil lil' thugs fo' realz. Amen.

Yet dat biiiiatch was not mad salty wit him; lookin down at his ass dat dunkadelic hoe thought be looked like a horribly overtired lil pimp whoz ass shitty tried ta do too much n' had fallen asleep up in tha middle of tha livin room floor yo. Dude had stopped drankin n' dat shiznit was not Jack whoz ass had made tha decision ta start again; there had been no liquor fo' his ass ta start with... so where had it come from?

Restin at every last muthafuckin five or six feet along tha horseshoe-shaped bar there was Cristal bottlez wrapped up in straw, they grills plugged wit candles. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Supposed ta look bohemian, her big-ass booty supposed. Biatch picked one up n' shook it, half-expectin ta hear tha slosh of gin inside dat shit

(new Cristal up in oldschool bottles)

but there was nothing. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch set it back down.

Jack was stirring. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch went round tha bar, found tha gate, n' strutted back on tha inside ta where Jack lay, pausin only ta peep tha gleamin chromium taps. They was dry yo, but when she passed close ta dem dat thugged-out biiiatch could smell brew, wet n' new, like a gangbangin' fine mist.

As she reached Jack he rolled over, opened his wild lil' fuckin eyes, n' looked up at her n' shit. For a moment his wild lil' freakadelic gaze was utterly blank, n' then it cleared.

"Wendy?" he asked. "That yo slick ass?"

"Yes," her big-ass booty holla'd. "Do you be thinkin you can make it upstairs, biatch? If you put yo' arms round mah crazy ass son, biatch? Jack, where did you-"

His hand closed brutally round her ankle.

"Jack! What is you-"

"Gotcha!" da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, n' fuckin started ta grin. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. There was a stale odor of gin n' olives bout his ass dat seemed ta set off a oldschool terror up in her, a worse terror than any hotel could provide by itself fo' realz. A distant part of her thought dat da most thugged-out shitty thang was dat it had all come back ta this, she n' her fadeden homeboy.

"Jack, I wanna help."

"Oh yeah. Yo ass n' Danny only wanna help." Da grip on her ankle was crushin now, nahmeean, biatch? Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Still holdin onto her, Jack was gettin shakily ta his knees. "Yo ass wanted ta help our asses all right outta here, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. But now, nahmeean?.. I... gotcha!"

"Jack, you're hurtin mah ankle-"

"I'll hurt mo' than yo' ankle, you biiiatch."

Da word stunned her so straight-up dat she made no effort ta move when he let go of her ankle n' stumbled from his knees ta his wild lil' feet, where da perved-out muthafucka stood swayin up in front of her muthafuckin ass.

"Yo ass never loved me," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. "Yo ass want our asses ta leave cuz you know that'll be tha end of mah dirty ass. Did yo dirty ass eva be thinkin bout mah re... res... respons'bilities, biatch? Fuck dat shit, I guess ta fuck you didn't fo' realz. All you eva be thinkin bout is ways ta drag me down. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. You're just like mah mother, you milksop biiiatch!"

"Quit it," her big-ass booty holla'd, crying. "Yo ass don't know what tha fuck you're saying. You're faded. I don't know how tha fuck yo, but you're faded."

"Oh, I know. I know now, nahmeean, biatch? Yo ass n' his muthafuckin ass. That lil pup upstairs. Da two of you, plannin together n' shit. Isn't dat right?"

"Fuck dat shit, no! We never planned anything! What is you-"

"Yo ass liarl" da perved-out muthafucka screamed. "Oh, I know how tha fuck you do dat shiznit son! I guess I know dat son! When I say, `We're goin ta stay here n' I'm goin ta do mah thang,' you say, `Yes, dear,' n' da perved-out muthafucka says, `Yes, Daddy,' n' then you lay yo' plans. Yo ass planned ta use tha snowmobile. Yo ass planned dis shit. But I knew. I figured it out. Did yo dirty ass be thinkin I wouldn't figure it out, biatch? Did yo dirty ass be thinkin I was stupid?"

Bitch stared at him, unable ta drop a rhyme now yo. Dude was goin ta bust a cap up in her, n' then da thug was goin ta bust a cap up in Danny. Then maybe tha hotel would be satisfied n' allow his ass ta bust a cap up in his dirty ass. Just like dat other caretaker n' shit. Just like

(Grady.)

With almost swoonin horror, she realized at last whoz ass dat shiznit was dat Jack had been conversin wit up in tha ballroom.

"Yo ass turned mah lil hustla against mah dirty ass. That was tha worst." His grill sagged tha fuck into linez of selfpity. "My fuckin lil boy. Now dat schmoooove muthafucka hates me, like a muthafucka. Yo ass saw ta dis shit. That was yo' plan all along, wasn't it, biatch? You've always been jealous, haven't yo slick ass, biatch? Just like yo' mutha n' shit. Yo ass couldn't be satisfied unless you had all tha cake, could yo slick ass, biatch? Could yo slick ass?"

Bitch couldn't talk.

"Well, I'll fix you," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, n' tried ta put his handz round her throat.

Bitch took a step backward, then another, n' da perved-out muthafucka stumbled against her n' shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch remembered tha knife up in tha pocket of her robe n' groped fo' it yo, but now his fuckin left arm had swept round her, pinnin her arm against her side. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch could smell sharp gin n' tha sour odor of his sweat.

"Have ta be punished," da thug was grunting. "Chastised. Chastised... harshly."

His right hand found her throat.

As her breath stopped, pure panic took over n' shiznit yo. His left hand joined his bangin right n' now tha knife was free ta her own hand yo, but she forgot bout dat shit. Both of her handz came up n' fuckin started ta yank helplessly at his fuckin larger, stronger ones.

"Mommy!" Danny shrieked from somewhere, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. "Daddy, stop! You're hurtin Mommyl" Dude screamed piercingly, a high n' crystal sound dat dat freaky freaky biatch heard from far off.

Red flashez of light leaped up in front of her eyes like ballet dancers. Da room grew darker n' shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch saw her lil hustla clamber up on tha bar n' throw his dirty ass at Jack's shoulders. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Suddenly one of tha handz dat had been crushin her throat was gone as Jack cuffed Danny away wit a snarl. Da pimp fell tha fuck back against tha empty shelves n' dropped ta tha floor, dazed. Da hand was on her throat again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da red flashes fuckin started ta turn black.

Danny was bustin up like a biatch weakly yo. Her chest was burning. Jack was shoutin tha fuck into her face: "I'll fix you, nahmean biiiatch, biatch? Goddam you, I'll show you whoz ass is boss round here biaaatch! I'll show you-"

But all soundz was fadin down a long-ass dark corridor yo. Her strugglez fuckin started ta weaken. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. One of her handz fell tha fuck away from his thugged-out n' dropped slowly until tha arm was stretched up at right anglez ta her body, tha hand danglin limply from tha wrist like tha hand of a thugged-out drownin biatch.

It touched a funky-ass bottle-one of tha straw-wrapped Cristal bottlez dat served as decoratizzle candleholders.

Sightlessly, wit tha last of her strength, she groped fo' tha bottle's neck n' found it, feelin tha greasy beadz of wax against her hand.

(and U Dogg if it slips)

Bitch brought it up n' then down, prayin fo' aim, knowin dat if it only struck his shoulder or upper arm dat biiiiatch was dead as fuckin fried chicken.

But tha forty came down squarely on Jack Torrance's head, tha glass shatterin violently inside tha straw. Da base of dat shiznit was thick n' heavy, n' it done cooked up a sound against his skull like a medicine bizzle dropped on a hardwood floor yo. Dude rocked back on his heels, his wild lil' fuckin eyes rollin up in they sockets, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. Da heat on her throat loosened, then gave way entirely yo. Dude put his handz out, as if ta steady his dirty ass, n' then crashed over on his back.

Wendy drew a long, sobbin breath. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch almost fell tha fuck her muthafuckin ass, clutched tha edge of tha bar, n' managed ta hold her muthafuckin ass up. Consciousnizz wavered up in n' out. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch could hear Danny bustin up yo, but dat freaky freaky biatch had no clue where da thug was. Well shiiiit, it sounded like bustin up like a biatch up in a echo chamber n' shit. Dimly her big-ass booty saw dime-sized dropz of blood fallin ta tha dark surface of tha bar-from her nose, dat dunkadelic hoe thought. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch cleared her throat n' spat on tha floor. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Well shiiiit, it busted a wave of agony up tha column of her throat yo, but tha agony subsided ta a steady dull press of pain..., just bearable.

Little by lil, she managed ta git control of her muthafuckin ass.

Bitch let go of tha bar, turned around, n' saw Jack lyin full-length, tha shattered forty beside his muthafuckin ass yo. Dude looked like a gangbangin' felled giant. Danny was crouched below tha lounge's chedda register, both handz up in his crazy-ass grill, starin at his unconscious father.

Wendy went ta his ass unsteadily n' touched his shoulder n' shit. Danny cringed away from her muthafuckin ass.

"Danny, dig me-"

"Fuck dat shit, no," he muttered up in a husky oldschool dudez voice. "Daddy hurt you, biatch... you hurt Daddy... Daddy hurt you,... I wanna chill like a pimp. Danny wants ta chill like a pimp."

"Danny-"

"Sleep, chill. Nighty-night."

"No!"

Pain rippin up her throat again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch winced against dat shit. But he opened his wild lil' fuckin eyes. They looked at her warily from bluish, shadowed sockets.

Bitch made her muthafuckin ass drop a rhyme calmly, her eyes never leavin his yo. Her voice was low n' husky, almost a whisper n' shit. Well shiiiit, it hurt ta talk. "Listen ta me, Danny. Well shiiiit, it wasn't yo' daddy tryin ta hurt mah dirty ass fo' realz. And I didn't wanna hurt his muthafuckin ass. Da hotel has gotten tha fuck into him, Danny. Da Overlook has gotten tha fuck into yo' daddy. Do you KNOW me son?"

Some kind of knowledge came slowly back tha fuck into Danny's eyes.

"Da Shiznitty Stuff," da thug whispered. "There was none of it here before, was there?"

"No. Da hotel put it here, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. The...: ' Biatch broke off up in a gangbangin' fit of coughin n' spat up mo' blood. I be fly as a gangbangin' falcon, soarin all up in tha sky dawwwwg! Her throat already felt puffed ta twice its size. "Da hotel made his ass drank dat shit. Did yo dirty ass hear dem playas da thug was poppin' off ta dis morning?"

"Yes yes y'all... tha hotel people..."

"I heard dem like a muthafucka fo' realz. And dat means tha hotel is gettin stronger n' shit. Well shiiiit, it wants ta hurt all of us. But I think..., I hope..., dat it can only do dat all up in yo' daddy yo. Dude was tha only one it could catch. Is you understandin me, Danny, biatch? It's desperately blingin dat you understand."

"Da hotel caught Daddy," Dude looked at Jack n' groaned helplessly.

"I know you ludd yo' daddy. I do like a muthafucka. We gotta remember dat tha hotel is tryin ta hurt his ass as much as it is us." And dat biiiiatch was convinced dat was true. Mo', dat dunkadelic hoe thought dat Danny might be tha one tha hotel straight-up wanted, tha reason dat shiznit was goin so far... maybe tha reason dat shiznit was able ta go so far. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Well shiiiit, it might even be dat up in some unknown fashizzle dat shiznit was Danny's shine dat was powerin it, tha way a funky-ass battery powers tha electrical shiznit up in a cold-ass lil car... tha way a funky-ass battery gets a cold-ass lil hoopty ta start. If they gots outta here, tha Overlook might subside ta its oldschool semi-sentient state, able ta do no mo' than present penny-dreadful horror slides ta tha mo' psychoally aware guests whoz ass entered dat shit. Without Danny dat shiznit was not much mo' than a amusement park hustled house, where a hommie or two might hear rappings or tha phantom soundz of a masquerade party, or peep a occasionizzle disturbin thang. But if it absorbed Danny.,. Danny's shine or Iifeforce or spirit, n' I aint talkin bout no muthafuckin Jack Daniels neither... whatever you wanted ta booty-call dat shit... tha fuck into itself-what would it be then?

Da thought made her cold all over.

"I wish Daddy was all better," Danny holla'd, n' tha tears fuckin started ta flow again.

"Me too," her big-ass booty holla'd, n' hugged Danny tightly. "And honey, that's why you've gots ta help me put yo' daddy somewhere, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Somewhere dat tha hotel can't make his ass hurt our asses n' where his schmoooove ass can't hurt his dirty ass. Then... if yo' playa Dick comes, or a park ranger, we can take his ass away fo' realz. And I be thinkin he might be all right again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. All of our asses might be all right. I be thinkin there's still a cold-ass lil chizzle fo' that, if we're phat n' brave, like you was when you jumped on his back. Do you understand?" Biatch looked at his ass pleadingly n' thought how tha fuck strange it was; dat freaky freaky biatch had never peeped his ass when he looked so much like Jack.

"Yes," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, n' nodded. "I think... if we can git away from here... every last muthafuckin thang is ghon be like it was. Where could we put him?"

"Da pantry. There's chicken up in there, n' a phat phat bolt on tha outside. It's warm fo' realz. And we can smoke up tha thangs from tha refrigerator n' tha freezer n' shit. There is ghon be fuckloadz fo' all three of our asses until help comes."

"Do our phat asses do it now?"

"Yes, n' aint a thugged-out damn thang dat yo' ass can do. Before da thug wakes up.,"

Danny put tha bargate up while she folded Jack's handz on his chest n' listened ta his breathang fo' a moment. Dat shiznit was slow but regular. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. From tha smell of his ass dat dunkadelic hoe thought he must have faded a pimped out deal... n' da thug was outta tha habit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch thought it might be liquor as much as tha crack on tha head wit tha forty dat had put his ass out.

Bitch picked up his hairy-ass legs n' fuckin started ta drag his ass along tha floor. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch had been gangbangin his ass fo' nearly seven years, dat schmoooove muthafucka had lain on top of her countless times-in tha thousandsbut dat freaky freaky biatch had never realized how tha fuck heavy da thug was yo. Her breath whistled painfully up in n' outta her hurt throat. Nevertheless, she felt betta than dat freaky freaky biatch had up in days. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch was kickin it yo. Havin just brushed so close ta dirtnap, dat was precious fo' realz. And Jack was kickin it, like a muthafucka. By blind luck rather than plan, they had like found tha only way dat would brang dem all safely out.

Pantin harshly, she paused a moment, holdin Jack's feet against her hips. Da surroundings reminded her of tha oldschool seafarin captain's cry up in Treasure Island afta oldschool blind Pew had passed his ass tha Black Spot: h'e'll do em yeti

And then she remembered, uncomfortably, dat tha oldschool seadog had dropped dead mere secondz later.

"Is you all right, Mommy, biatch? Is he... is tha pimpin' muthafucka too heavy?"

"I'll manage." Biatch fuckin started ta drag his ass again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Danny was beside Jack. One of his handz had fallen off his chest, n' Danny replaced it gently, wit love.

"Is you sure, Mommy?"

"Yes yes y'all. It's tha dopest thang, Danny."

"It's like puttin his ass on lockdown."

"Only fo' awhile."

"Okay, then. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Is you shizzle you can do it?"

"Yes yes y'all."

But dat shiznit was a near thang, at dis shit. Danny had been cradlin his wild lil' father's head when they went over tha doorsills yo, but his handz slipped up in Jack's greasy afro as they went tha fuck into tha kitchen. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da back of his head struck tha tiles, n' Jack fuckin started ta moan n' stir.

"Yo ass gots ta use smoke," Jack muttered doggystyle. "Now run n' git me dat gascan."

Wendy n' Danny exchanged tight, fearful glances.

"Help me," her big-ass booty holla'd up in a low voice.

For a moment Danny stood as if paralyzed by his wild lil' father's face, n' then he moved jerkily ta her side n' helped her hold tha left leg. They dragged his ass across tha kitchen floor up in a nightmare kind of slow motion, tha only soundz tha faint, insectile buzz of tha fluorescent lights n' they own labored breathing.

When they reached tha pantry, Wendy put Jack's feet down n' turned ta fumble wit tha bolt. Danny looked down at Jack, whoz ass was lyin limp n' chillaxed again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da shirttail had pulled outta tha back of his baggy-ass pants as they dragged his ass n' Danny wondered if Daddy was too faded ta be cold. Well shiiiit, it seemed wack ta lock his ass up in tha pantry like a wild animal yo, but dat schmoooove muthafucka had peeped what tha fuck tha pimpin' muthafucka tried ta do ta Mommy. Even upstairs dat schmoooove muthafucka had known Daddy was goin ta do dis shiznit yo. Dude had heard dem jumpin off bout some shiznit up in his head.

(If only we could all be outta here, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. Or if dat shiznit was a thugged-out trip I was having, back up in Stovington. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. If only.)

Da bolt was stuck.

Wendy pulled at it as hard as dat thugged-out biiiatch could yo, but it wouldn't move. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch couldn't retract tha goddam bolt. Dat shiznit was wack n' unfair... dat freaky freaky biatch had opened it wit no shiznit at all when dat freaky freaky biatch had gone up in ta git tha can of soup. Now it wouldn't move, n' what tha fuck was she goin ta do, biatch? They couldn't put his ass up in tha strutt-in refrigerator; da thug would freeze or smutha ta dirtnap. But if they left his ass up n' da thug woke up...

Jack stirred again n' again n' again on tha floor.

"I'll take care of it," he muttered. "I understand"

"He's wakin up, Mommyl" Danny warned.

Sobbin now, she yanked all up in tha bolt wit both hands.

"Danny?" There was suttin' softly menacing, if still blurry, up in Jack's voice. "That you, ole doc?"

"Just chill like a pimp, Daddy," Danny holla'd nervously. "It's bedtime, you know."

Dude looked up at his crazy-ass mother, still strugglin wit tha bolt, n' saw what tha fuck was wack immediately. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch had forgotten ta rotate tha bolt before tryin ta withdraw dat shit. Da lil catch was stuck up in its notch.

"Here," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd low, n' brushed her tremblin handz aside; his own was bobbin almost as badly yo. Dude knocked tha catch loose wit tha heel of his hand n' tha bolt drew back doggystyle.

"Quick," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. Dude looked down. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Jack's eyes shitty fluttered open again n' again n' again n' dis time Daddy was lookin directly at him, his wild lil' freakadelic gaze strangely flat n' speculative.

"Yo ass copied it," Daddy holla'd at his muthafuckin ass. "I know you did, But it's here somewhere, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho fo' realz. And I'll find dat shit. That I promise you, biatch. IT find dat shit..." His lyrics slurred off again.

Wendy pushed tha pantry door open wit her knee, hardly noticin tha pungent odor of dried fruit dat wafted out. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch picked up Jack's feet again n' again n' again n' dragged his ass in. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch was gaspin harshly now, all up in tha limit of her strength fo' realz. As she yanked tha chain pull dat turned on tha light, Jack's eyes fluttered open again.

"What is you bustin, biatch? Wendy, biatch? What is you bustin?"

Bitch stepped over his muthafuckin ass.

Dude was quick; amazingly quick. One hand lashed up n' dat freaky freaky biatch had ta sidestep n' nearly fall up tha door ta stay tha fuck away from his wild lil' freakadelic grasp. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Still, dat schmoooove muthafucka had caught a handful of her bathrobe n' there was a heavy purrin noise as it ripped., Dude was up on his handz n' knees now, his afro hangin up in his wild lil' fuckin eyes, like some heavy animal. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack fo' realz. A big-ass dog... or a lion.

"Damn you both, I know what tha fuck you want. But you're not goin ta git dat shit. This hotel... it's mine. It's me they want. Mel Mel"

"Da door, Dannyl" her big-ass booty screamed. "Shut tha door!"

Dude pushed tha heavy wooden door shut wit a slam, just as lack leaped. Da door latched n' Jack thudded uselessly against dat shit.

Danny's lil' small-ass handz groped all up in tha bolt. Wendy was too far away ta help; tha issue of whether da thug would be locked up in or free was goin ta be decided up in two seconds. Danny missed his wild lil' freakadelic grip, found it again, n' blasted tha bolt across just as tha latch fuckin started ta jiggle madly up n' down below dat shit. Then it stayed up n' there was a seriez of thudz as Jack slammed his shoulder against tha door. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Da bolt, a quarta inch of steel up in diameter, flossed no signz of loosening. Wendy let her breath up slowly.

"Let me outta here!" Jack raged. "Let me up son! Danny, doggone it, dis is yo' daddy n' I wanna git up son! Now do what tha fuck I rap l"

Danny's hand moved automatically toward tha bolt. Wendy caught it n' pressed it between her breasts.

"Yo ass mind yo' daddy, Dannyl Yo ass do what tha fuck I sayl Yo ass do it or I'll hit you wit a hidin you'll never forget. Open dis door or FU bash yo' fuckin domes in!"

Danny looked at her, pale as window glass.

They could hear his breath tearin up in n' up behind tha half inch of solid oak.

"Wendy, you let me outl Let me up right now! Yo ass skanky pickle-plated coldcunt biiiatch! Yo ass let me up son! I mean dat shiznit son! Let me outta here n' I'll let it go! If you don't, I'll mess you up! I mean dat shiznit son! I'll mess you up so shitty yo' own mutha would pass you on tha street son! Now open dis door!"

Danny moaned. Wendy looked at his ass n' saw da thug was goin ta faint up in a moment.

"Come on, doc," her big-ass booty holla'd, surprised all up in tha calmnizz of her own voices "It's not yo' daddy rappin', remember n' shit. It's tha hotel."

"Come hack here n' let me up right NOW!" Jack screamed. There was a scraping, breakin sound as he beat down tha inside of tha door wit his wild lil' fingernails.

"It's tha hotel," Danny holla'd. "It's tha hotel. I remember." But he looked back over his shoulder n' his wild lil' grill was crumpled n' terrified.

Chapta 47. Danny
Dat shiznit was three up in tha afternoon of a long, long day.

They was chillin on tha big-ass bed up in they quarters. Danny was turnin tha purple VW model wit tha monsta stickin outta tha sun roof over n' over up in his hands, compulsively.

They had heard Daddy's batterings all up in tha door all tha way across tha lobby, tha batterings n' his voice, hoarse n' petulantly mad salty up in a weak-kin sort of a way, vomitin promisez of punishment, vomitin profanity, promisin both of dem dat they would live ta regret betrayin his ass afta dat schmoooove muthafucka had slaved his wild lil' freakadelic guts up fo' dem over tha years.

Danny thought they would no longer be able ta hear it upstairs yo, but tha soundz of his bangin rage carried perfectly up tha dumb-waita shaft: Mommy's grill was pale, n' there was wack brownish bruises on her neck where Daddy had tried to...

Dude turned tha model over n' over up in his hands, Daddy's prize fo' havin hustled his bangin readin lessons.

(...where Daddy had tried ta gangbang her too tight.)

Mommy put a shitload of her noize on tha lil record playa, scratchy n' full of horns n' flutes. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch smiled at his ass tiredly yo. Dude tried ta smile back n' failed. Even wit tha volume turned up bangin tha pimpin' muthafucka thought his schmoooove ass could still hear Daddy beatboxin at dem n' batterin tha pantry door like a animal up in a zoo cage: What if Daddy had ta git all up in tha bathroom, biatch? What would da ruffneck do then?

Danny fuckin started ta cry like a muthafucka.

Wendy turned tha volume down on tha record playa at once, held him, rocked his ass on her lap.

"Danny, love, it is ghon be all right. Well shiiiit, it will. If Mista Muthafuckin yo. Hallorann didn't git yo' message, one of mah thugs will fo' realz. As soon as tha storm is over n' shit. No one could git up here until then anyway. Mista Muthafuckin yo. Hallorann or any suckas. But when tha storm is over, every last muthafuckin thang is ghon be fine again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. We'll leave here, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho fo' realz. And do you know what tha fuck we'll do next spring, biatch? Da three of us?"

Danny shook his head against her breasts yo. Dude didn't know. Well shiiiit, it seemed there could never be sprang again.

"We'll go fishing. We'll rent a funky-ass boat n' go fishing, just like our phat asses did last year on Chatterton Lake. Yo ass n' mah crazy ass n' yo' daddy fo' realz. And maybe you'll catch a funky-ass bass fo' our supper n' shiznit fo' realz. And maybe we won't catch anythang yo, but we're shizzle ta git a phat time."

"I gots a straight-up boner fo' you, Mommy," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, n' hugged her muthafuckin ass.

"Oh, Danny, I gots a straight-up boner fo' you, like a muthafucka."

Outside, tha wind whooped n' screamed,

Around four-thirty, just as tha daylight fuckin started ta fail, tha screams ceased.

They had both been dozin uneasily, Wendy still holdin Danny up in her arms, n' her dope ass didn't wake. But Danny done did. Somehow tha silence was worse, mo' ominous than tha screams n' tha blows against tha phat pantry door. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Was Daddy asleep again, biatch? Or dead, biatch? Or what?

(Did he git out?)

Fifteen minutes lata tha silence was fucked up by a hard, grating, metallic rattle. There was a heavy grinding, then a mechanical humming. Wendy came awake wit a cold-ass lil cry like a muthafucka.

Da elevator was hustlin again.

They listened ta it, wide-eyed, huggin each other n' shit. Well shiiiit, it went from floor ta floor, tha grate rattlin back, tha brass door slammin open. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. There was laughter, fadeden shouts, occasionizzle screams, n' tha soundz of breakage.

Da Overlook was comin ta game round them,

Chapta 48. Jack
Dude sat on tha floor of tha pantry wit his hairy-ass legs up in front of him, a funky-ass box of Triscuit crackers between them, lookin all up in tha door yo. Dude was smokin tha crackers one by one, not tokin them, only smokin dem cuz dat schmoooove muthafucka had ta smoke something. When he gots outta here, da thug was goin ta need his strength fo' realz. All of dat shit.

At dis precise instant, tha pimpin' muthafucka thought dat schmoooove muthafucka had never felt like so miserable up in his wild lil' fuckin entire game yo. His mind n' body together made up a large-writ scripture of pain. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. His head ached terribly, tha sick throb of a hangover n' shit. Da attendant symptoms was there, too: his crazy-ass grill smoked like a manure rake had taken a swin all up in it, his wild lil' fuckin ears rung, his thugged-out ass had a extra-heavy, thuddin beat, like a tom-tom. In addition, both shouldaz ached fiercely from throwin his dirty ass against tha door n' his cold-ass throat felt raw n' peeled from useless shoutin yo. Dude had cut his bangin right hand on tha doorlatch.

And when he gots outta here, da thug was goin ta kick some ass.

Dude munched tha Triscuits one by one, refusin ta give up in ta his wretched stomach, which wanted ta vomit up every last muthafuckin thang yo. Dude thought of tha Excedrins up in his thugged-out lil' pocket n' decided ta wait until his stomach had on tha fuckin' down-lowed a funky-ass bit. No sense swallowin a painkilla if you was goin ta throw it right back up yo. Have ta use yo' dome. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da bigged up Jack Torrizzle dome. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. Aren't you tha fellow whoz ass once was goin ta live by his wits, biatch? Jack Torrance, best-pimpin lyricist. Jack Torrance, hyped playwright n' balla of tha New York Critics Circle Award. Jizzy Torrance, playa of letters, esteemed thinker, balla of tha Pulitzer Prize at seventy fo' his cold-ass trenchant book of memoirs, My fuckin Life up in tha Twentieth Century fo' realz. All any of dat shiznit boiled down ta was livin by yo' wits.

Livin by yo' wits be always knowin where tha wasps are.

Dude put another Triscuit tha fuck into his crazy-ass grill n' crunched it up.

What it straight-up came down to, da perved-out muthafucka supposed, was they lack of trust up in his muthafuckin ass. Their failure ta believe dat he knew what tha fuck was dopest fo' dem n' how tha fuck ta git it yo. His hoe had tried ta usurp him, first by fair

(sort of)

means, then by foul. When her lil hints n' whinin objections had been overturned by his own well-reasoned arguments, dat freaky freaky biatch had turned his pimp against him, tried ta bust a cap up in his ass wit a funky-ass bottle, n' then had locked him, of all places, up in tha goddamned fuckin pantry.

Still, a lil' small-ass interior voice nagged his muthafuckin ass.

(Yes yes y'all yo, but where did tha liquor come from, biatch? Isn't dat straight-up tha central point, biatch? Yo ass know what tha fuck happens when you drink, you know it from bitta experience. When you drink, you lose yo' wits.)

Dude hurled tha box of Triscuits across tha lil' small-ass room. They struck a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shelf of canned loot n' fell tha fuck ta tha floor yo. Dude looked all up in tha box, wiped his fuckin lips wit his hand, n' then looked at his watch. Dat shiznit was almost six-thirty yo. Dude had been up in here fo' hours yo. His hoe had locked his ass up in here n' he'd been here fo' fuckin hours.

Dude could begin ta sympathize wit his wild lil' father

Da thang he'd never axed his dirty ass, Jack realized now, was exactly what tha fuck had driven his fuckin lil' daddy ta drank up in tha straight-up original gangsta place fo' realz. And straight-up... when you came right down ta what tha fuck his oldschool hustlas had been pleased ta booty-call tha nifty-gritty... hadn't it been tha biatch da thug was gangbangin, biatch? A milksop sponge of a biatch, always draggin silently round tha doggy den wit a expression of doomed martyrdom on her face, biatch? A bizzle n' chain round Daddy's ankle, biatch? Fuck dat shit, not bizzle n' chain. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch had never actively tried ta make Daddy a prisoner, tha way Wendy had done ta his muthafuckin ass. For Jack's daddy it must done been mo' like tha fate of McTeague tha dentist all up in tha end of Frank Norris's pimped out novel: handcuffed ta a thugged-out dead playa up in tha wasteland. Yes, dat was mo' betta n' shit. Menstrually n' spiritually dead, his crazy-ass mutha had been handcuffed ta his wild lil' daddy by matrimony. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Still, Daddy had tried ta do right as da ruffneck dragged her rottin corpse all up in game yo. Dude had tried ta brang tha four lil pimps up ta know right from wrong, ta KNOW discipline, n' above all, ta respect they father.

Well, they had been ingrates, all of them, his dirty ass included. And now da thug was payin tha price; his own lil hustla had turned up ta be a ingrate, like a muthafucka. But there was hope yo. Dude would git outta here somehow yo. Dude would chastise dem both, n' harshly yo. Dude would set Danny a example, so dat tha dizzle might come when Danny was grown, a thugged-out dizzle when Danny would know what tha fuck ta do betta than dat schmoooove muthafucka his dirty ass had known.

Dude remembered tha Sundizzle dinner when his wild lil' daddy had caned his crazy-ass mutha all up in tha table... how tha fuck horrified he n' tha others had been. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Now his schmoooove ass could peep how tha fuck necessary dat shitty been, how tha fuck his wild lil' daddy had only been feignin fadedenness, how tha fuck his wits had been sharp n' kickin it underneath all along, watchin fo' tha slightest sign of disrespect.

Jack crawled afta tha Triscuits n' fuckin started ta smoke dem again, chillin by tha door dat freaky freaky biatch had so treacherously bolted. This type'a shiznit happens all tha time yo. Dude wondered exactly what tha fuck his wild lil' daddy had seen, n' how tha fuck dat schmoooove muthafucka had caught her up by his thugged-out lil' playactin yo. Had da hoe been sneerin at his ass behind her hand, biatch? Stickin her tongue out, biatch? Makin obscene finger gestures, biatch? Or only lookin at his ass insolently n' arrogantly, convinced dat da thug was too stupidly faded ta see, biatch? Whatever it had been, dat schmoooove muthafucka had caught her at it, n' dat schmoooove muthafucka had chastised her sharply fo' realz. And now, twenty muthafuckin years later, his schmoooove ass could finally appreciate Daddy's wisdom.

Of course you could say Daddy had been foolish ta fuck such a biatch, ta have handcuffed his dirty ass ta dat corpse up in tha straight-up original gangsta place... n' a gangbangin' finger-lickin' disrespectful corpse at dis shit. But when tha lil' marry up in haste they must repent up in leisure, n' like Daddy's daddy had hooked up tha same type of biatch, so dat unconsciously Jack's daddy had also hooked up one, as Jack his dirty ass had. Except dat his hoe, instead of bein satisfied wit tha passive role of havin wrecked one game n' crippled another, had opted fo' tha poisonously actizzle task of tryin ta fuck wit his fuckin last n' dopest chance: ta become a gangmember of tha Overlook's staff, n' possibly ta rise... all tha way ta tha posizzle of manager, up in time. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch was tryin ta deny his ass Danny, n' Danny was his cold-ass ticket of admission. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. That was foolish, of course-why would they want tha lil hustla when they could have tha father?-but employers often had foolish scams n' dat was tha condizzle dat had been made.

Dude wasn't goin ta be able ta reason wit her, his schmoooove ass could peep dat now yo. Dude had tried ta reason wit her up in tha Colorado Lounge, n' dat freaky freaky biatch had refused ta listen, had hit his ass over tha head wit a funky-ass forty fo' his thugged-out lil' pains. But there would be another time, n' soon. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude would git outta here.

Dude suddenly held his breath n' cocked his head. Somewhere a piano was playin boogie-woogie n' playas was bustin up n' clappin along. Da sound was muffled all up in tha heavy wooden door yo, but audible. Da cold lil' woo wop was "There'll Be a Hot Time up in tha Oldskool Hood Tonight."

His handz curled helplessly tha fuck into fists; dat schmoooove muthafucka had ta restrain his dirty ass from batterin all up in tha door wit dem wild-ass muthafuckas. Da jam had begun again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da liquor would be flowin freely. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Somewhere, ridin' dirty wit one of mah thugs, would be tha hoe whoz ass had felt so maddeningly nude under her white silk gown.

"You'll pay fo' this!" dat schmoooove muthafucka howled. "Goddam you two, you'll pay dawwwwg! You'll take yo' goddam medicine fo' this, I promise you, nahmean biiiatch, biatch? You-"

"Here, here, now," a mild voice holla'd just outside tha door, "No need ta shout, oldschool fellow. I can hear you perfectly well."

Jack lurched ta his wild lil' feet

"Grady, biatch? Is dat yo slick ass?"

"Yes, sir. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Git tha fuck outta mah grill wit dat bullshit it is. Yo ass step tha fuck up ta done been locked in."

"Let me out, Grady. Quickly."

"I peep you can hardly have taken care of tha bidnizz our phat asses discussed, sir. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Da erection of yo' hoe n' son."

"They're tha ones whoz ass locked mah crazy ass in. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Pull tha bolt, fo' God's sake!"

"Yo ass let dem lock you in?" Grady's voice registered wellbred surprise. "Oh, dear fo' realz. A biatch half yo' size n' a lil boy, biatch? Hardly sets you off as bein of top managerial timber, do it?"

A pulse fuckin started ta beat up in tha clocksprin of veins at Jack's right temple. "Let me out, Grady. I'll take care of dem wild-ass muthafuckas."

"Will you indeed, sir, biatch? I wonder." Well-bred surprise was replaced by well-bred regret. "I'm pained ta say dat I doubt dat shit. I-and others-have straight-up come ta believe dat yo' ass aint up in this, sir. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. That you haven't the... tha belly fo' it"

"I do!" Jack shouted. This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. "I do, I swear dat shiznit son!"

"Yo ass would brang our asses yo' son?"

"Yes muthafucka! Yes!"

"Yo crazy-ass hoe would object ta dat straight-up strongly, Mista Muthafuckin Torrizzle fo' realz. And she appears ta be... somewhat stronger than our crazy asses had imagined. Somewhat mo' resourceful naaahhmean, biatch? Biatch certainly seems ta have gotten tha betta of you, biatch."

Grady tittered.

"Perhaps, Mista Muthafuckin Torrance, we should done been dealin wit her all along."

"I'll brang him, I swear it," Jack holla'd. His grill was against tha door now yo. Dude was sweating. "Bitch won't object. I swear dat biiiiatch won't. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch won't be able to."

"Yo ass would gotta bust a cap up in her, I fear," Grady holla'd coldly.

"I'll do what tha fuck I gotta do. Just let me out."

"You'll give yo' word on it, sir?" Grady persisted.

"My fuckin word, mah promise, mah sacred vow, whatever up in hell you want. If you-"

There was a gangbangin' flat snap as tha bolt was drawn back. Da door shivered open a quarta of a inch. Jack's lyrics n' breath halted. This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. For a moment he felt dat dirtnap itself was outside dat door.

Da feelin passed.

Dude whispered: "Nuff props, Grady. I swear you won't regret dat shit. I swear you won't."

There was no answer n' shiznit yo. Dude became aware dat all soundz had stopped except fo' tha cold swoopin of tha wind outside.

Dude pushed tha pantry door open; tha hinges squealed faintly.

Da kitchen was empty. Grady was gone. Everythang was still n' frozen beneath tha cold white glare of tha fluorescent bars yo. His eyes caught on tha big-ass choppin block where tha three of dem had smoked they meals.

Standin on top of dat shiznit was a martini glass, a gangbangin' fifth of gin, n' a plastic dish filled wit olives.

Leanin against dat shiznit was one of tha roque mallets from tha shiznit shed.

Dude looked at it fo' a long-ass time.

Then a voice much deeper n' much mo' bangin than Grady's, was rappin from somewhere, all over dis biiiatch... from inside his muthafuckin ass.

(Keep yo' promise, Mista Muthafuckin Torrance.)

"I will," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. Dude heard tha fawnin servilitizzle up in his own voice but was unable ta control dat shit. "I will."

Dude strutted ta tha choppin block n' put his hand on tha handle of tha mallet.

Dude hefted dat shit.

Swung dat shit.

It hissed viciously all up in tha air.

Jack Torrizzle fuckin started ta smile.

Chapta 49. Hallorann, Goin up tha Country
Dat shiznit was quarta of two up in tha afternoon n' accordin ta tha snow-clotted signs n' tha Hertz Buick's odometer, da thug was less than three milez from Estes Park when he finally went off tha road.

In tha hills, tha snow was fallin fasta n' mo' furiously than Hallorann had eva peeped (which was, like, not ta say a pimped out deal, since Hallorann had peeped as lil snow as his schmoooove ass could manage up in his wild lil' freakadelic gametime), n' tha wind was blowin a cold-ass lil capricious gale-now from tha westside, now backin round ta tha north, bustin cloudz of powdery snow across his wild lil' field of vision, makin his ass coldly aware again n' again n' again n' again n' again n' again dat if he missed a turn he might well plunge two hundred feet off tha road, tha Electra cartwheelin ass over teapot as it went down. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Makin it worse was his own amateur status as a winta driver n' shit. Well shiiiit, it scared his ass ta have tha yellow centa line buried under swirling, driftin snow, n' it scared his ass when tha heavy gustz of wind came unimpeded all up in tha notches up in tha hills n' straight-up made tha heavy Buick slew around. Well shiiiit, it scared his ass dat tha road shiznit signs was mostly maxed wit snow n' you could flip a cold-ass lil coin as ta whether tha road was goin ta break right or left up ahead up in tha white drive-in porno screen da perved-out muthafucka seemed ta be rollin all up in cause I gots dem finger-lickin' chickens wit tha siz-auce yo. Dude was scared, all right yo. Dude had driven up in a cold-ass lil cold sweat since climbin tha fuck into tha hills westside of Boulder n' Lyons, handlin tha accelerator n' brake as if they was Min vases. Between rock 'n' roll tunes on tha radio, tha disc jockey constantly adjured motorists ta stay off tha main highways n' under no conditions ta go tha fuck into tha mountains, cuz nuff roadz was impassable n' all of dem was dangerous. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Scorez of minor accidents had been reported, n' two straight-up ones: a jam of skiers up in a VW microbus n' a cold-ass lil crew dat had been bound fo' Albuquerque all up in tha Sangre de Cristo Mountains. Da combined score on both was four dead n' five wounded. "So stay off dem roadz n' git tha fuck into tha phat noize here at KTLK," tha jock concluded cheerily, n' then compounded Hallorann's misery by playin "Seasons up in tha Sun." "Our thugged-out asses had joy, our crazy asses had fun, our crazy asses had-" Terry Jacks gibbered happily, n' Hallorann snapped tha radio off viciously, knowin da thug would have it back on up in five minutes. No matta how tha fuck shitty it was, dat shiznit was betta than ridin ridin' solo all up in dis white madness.

(Admit dat shit. Dis heap black pimp has gots at least one long stripe of yaller... n' it runs rant up his wild lil' fuckin ebberlubbin back!)

It wasn't even funky yo. Dude would have backed off before he even cleared Boulder if it hadn't been fo' his compulsion dat tha pimp was up in shitty shit. Even now a lil' small-ass voice up in tha back of his skull-more tha voice of reason than of cowardice, tha pimpin' muthafucka thought-was spittin some lyrics ta his ass ta hole up in a Estes Park motel fo' tha night n' wait fo' tha plows ta at least expose tha centa stripe again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. That voice kept remindin his ass of tha jet's shaky landin at Stapleton, of dat sinkin feelin dat dat shiznit was goin ta come up in nose-first, deliverin its passengers ta tha gatez of hell rather than at Gate 39, Concourse B. But reason would not stand against tha compulsion. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Well shiiiit, it had ta be todizzle. It make me wanna hollar playa! Da snowstorm was his own shitty luck yo. Dude would gotta cope wit it yo. Dude was afraid dat if da ruffneck didn't, he might have suttin' much worse ta cope wit up in his fuckin lil' dreams.

Da wind gusted again, dis time from tha northeast, a lil Gangsta on tha bizzle if you please, n' da thug was again n' again n' again cut off from tha vague shapez of tha hills n' even from tha embankments on either side of tha road. Dude was rollin all up in white null.

And then tha high sodium lightz of tha snowplow loomed outta tha soup, bearin down, n' ta his horror da perved-out muthafucka saw dat instead of bein ta one side, tha Buick's nozzle was pointed directly between dem headlamps. Da plow was bein none too choosy bout keepin its own side of tha road, n' Hallorann had allowed tha Buick ta drift.

Da grindin roar of tha plow's diesel engine intruded over tha bellow of tha wind, n' then tha sound of its airhorn, hard, long, almost deafening.

Hallorann's nutsack turned tha fuck into two lil' small-ass wrinkled sacs filled wit shaved ice yo. His guts seemed ta done been transformed tha fuck into a big-ass mass of Silly Putty.

Color was materializin outta tha white now, snow-clotted orange yo. Dude could peep tha high cab, even tha gesticulatin figure of tha driver behind tha single long wiper blade yo. Dude could peep tha V shape of tha plow's win blades, spewin mo' snow up onto tha road's left-hand embankment like pallid, tokin exhaust.

WHAAAAAAAAA! tha airhorn bellowed indignantly.

Dude squeezed tha accelerator like tha breast of a muchloved biatch n' tha Buick scooted forward n' toward tha right. There was no embankment over here; tha plows headed up instead of down had only ta push tha snow directly over tha drop.

(Da drop, ah fo'sho, tha drop-)

Da wingblades on Hallorann's left, straight-up four feet higher than tha Electra's roof, flirted by wit no mo' than a inch or two ta spare. Until tha plow had straight-up cleared him, Hallorann had thought a cold-ass lil crash inevitable fo' realz. A prayer which was half a inarticulate apologizzle ta tha pimp flitted all up in his crazy-ass mind like a torn rag.

Then tha plow was past, its revolvin blue lights glintin n' flashin up in Hallorann's rearview mirror.

Dude jockeyed tha Buick's steerin wheel back ta tha left yo, but not a god damn thang bustin. Da scoot had turned tha fuck into a skid, n' tha Buick was floatin dreamily toward tha lip of tha drop, spurnin snow from under its mudguards.

Dude flicked tha wheel back tha other way, up in tha skid's direction, n' tha car's front n' rear fuckin started ta swap places. Panicked now, he pumped tha brake hard, n' then felt a hard bump. In front of his ass tha road was gone... da thug was lookin tha fuck into a funky-ass bottomless chazzle of swirlin snow n' vague greenish-gray pines far away n' far below.

(I'm goin holy mutha of Jizzy I'm goin off)

And dat was where tha hoopty stopped, cantin forward at a thirty-degree angle, tha left fender jammed against a guardrail, tha rear wheels nearly off tha ground. When Hallorann tried reverse, tha wheels only spun helplessly yo. His ass was bustin a Gene Krupa drumroll.

Dude gots out-very carefully he gots out-and went round ta tha Buick's back deck.

Dude was standin there, lookin all up in tha back wheels helplessly, when a cold-ass lil cheerful voice behind his ass holla'd: "Wuz crackalackin' there, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. fella. Yo ass must be shiznit right outta yo' mind."

Dude turned round n' saw tha plow forty yardz further down tha road, obscured up in tha blowin snow except fo' tha raftered dark brown streak of its exhaust n' tha revolvin blue lights on top. Da driver was standin just behind him, dressed up in a long-ass sheepskin coat n' a slicker over it fo' realz. A blue-and-white pinstriped engineer's cap was perched on his head, n' Hallorann could hardly believe dat shiznit was stayin on up in tha teeth of tha wind.

(Glue. Well shiiiit, it sure-Dogg must be glue.)

"Hi," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. "Yo ass betta pull me back onto tha road?"

"Oh, I guess I could," tha plow driver holla'd. "What tha hell you bustin way up here, mister, biatch? Dope way ta bust a cap up in yo' ass."

"Urgent bidnizz."

"Nothin is dat urgent," tha plow driver holla'd slowly n' kindly, as if bustin lyrics ta a menstrual defective. "If you'd 'a hit dat post a leetle mite harder, no muthafucka woulda gots you up till All Fools' Day. Don't come from these parts, do yo slick ass?"

"No fo' realz. And I wouldn't be here unless mah bidnizz was as urgent as I say."

"That so?" Da driver shifted his stizzle companionably as if they was havin a thugged-out desultory chat on tha back steps instead of standin up in a funky-ass blizzard halfway between hoot n' holler, wit Hallorann's hoopty balanced three hundred feet above tha topz of tha trees below.

"Where you headed, biatch? Estes?"

"Fuck dat shit, a place called tha Overlook Hotel," Hallorann holla'd. "It's a lil way above Sidewinder-"

But tha driver was bobbin his head dolefully.

"I guess I know well enough where dat is," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. "Mister, you'll never git up ta tha oldschool Overlook. Roadz between Estes Park n' Sidewinder is bloody damn hell. It's driftin up in right behind our asses no matta how tha fuck hard we push. I come all up in drifts all dem milez back dat was damn near six feet all up in tha middle fo' realz. And even if you could make Sidewinder, why, tha road's closed from there all tha way across ta Buckland, Utah. Nope." Dude shook his head. "Never make it, mista n' shit. Never make it at all."

"I gotta try," Hallorann holla'd, callin on his fuckin last reservez of patience ta keep his voice normal. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack. "There's a funky-ass pimp up there-"

"Boy, biatch? Naw. Da Overlook closes down all up in tha last end of September n' shit. No cementage keepin it open longer n' shit. Too nuff shit-storms like dis y'all."

"He's tha lil hustla of tha caretaker n' shiznit yo. He's up in shit."

"How tha fuck would you know that?"

His patience snapped.

"For Christ's sake is you goin ta stand there n' flap y'jaw all up in mah grill tha rest of tha day, biatch? I know, I know! Now is you goin ta pull me back on tha road or not?"

"Kind of testy, aren't yo slick ass?" tha driver observed, not particularly perturbed. "Sure, git back up in there, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. I gots a cold-ass lil chain behind tha seat."

Hallorann gots back behind tha wheel, beginnin ta shake wit delayed erection now yo. His handz was numbed almost clear all up in cause I gots dem finger-lickin' chickens wit tha siz-auce yo. Dude had forgotten ta brang gloves.

Da plow backed up ta tha rear of tha Buick, n' da perved-out muthafucka saw tha driver git up wit a long-ass coil of chain. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Hallorann opened tha door n' shouted: "What can I do ta help?"

"Stay outta tha way, be all," tha driver shouted back. "This ain't gonna take a funky-ass blink,"

Which was true fo' realz. A shudder ran all up in tha Buick's frame as tha chain pulled tight, n' a second lata dat shiznit was back on tha road, pointed mo' or less toward Estes Park. Da plow driver strutted up beside tha window n' knocked on tha safety glass yo. Hallorann rolled down tha window.

"Thanks," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. "I'm sorry I shouted at you, biatch."

"I been shouted at before," tha driver holla'd wit a grin. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. "I guess you're sorta strung up. Yo ass take these." A pair of bulky blue mittens dropped tha fuck into Hallorann's lap. "You'll need em when you go off tha road again, I guess. Cold out. Yo ass wear em unless you wanna spend tha rest of yo' game pickin yo' nozzle wit a cold-ass lil crochetin hook fo' realz. And you bust em back. My fuckin hoe knitted em n' I'm partial ta em. Name n' address is sewed right tha fuck into tha linin. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I'm Howard Cottrell, by tha way. Yo ass just bust em back when you don't need em no mo' fo' realz. And I don't wanna gotta go payin no postage due, mind."

"All right," Hallorann holla'd. "Thanks. One hell of all muthafuckin day."

"Yo ass be careful naaahhmean, biatch? I'd take you mah dirty ass yo, but I'm busy as a cold-ass lil pussaaaaay up in a mess of boombox strings."

"That's all gravy. Thanks again."

Dude started ta roll up tha window yo, but Cottrell stopped his muthafuckin ass.

"When you git ta Sidewinder-if you git ta Sidewinder-you git all up in Durkin's Conoco. It's right next ta tha li'brey. Can't miss dat shit. Yo ass ask fo' Larry Durkin. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Tell his ass Howie Cottrell busted you n' you wanna rent one of his snowmobiles. Yo ass mention mah name n' show dem mittens, you'll git tha cut rate."

"Thanks again," Hallorann holla'd.

Cottrell nodded. "It's funky fo' realz. Ain't no way you could know one of mah thugs's up in shiznit up there all up in tha Overlook... tha phone's out, shizzle as a muthafucka. But I believe you, biatch. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Sometimes I git feelins."

Hallorann nodded. "Sometimes I do, like a muthafucka."

"Yeah. I know you do. But you take care."

"I will."

Cottrell disappeared tha fuck into tha blowin dimnizz wit a gangbangin' final wave, his wild lil' fuckin engineer cap still mounted perkily on his head. Hallorann gots goin again, tha chains flailin all up in tha snowcover on tha road, finally diggin up in enough ta start tha Buick moving. Behind him, Howard Cottrell gave a gangbangin' final good-luck blast on his thugged-out lil' plow's airhorn, although dat shiznit was straight-up unnecessary; Hallorann could feel his ass wishin his ass phat luck.

That's two shines up in one day, tha pimpin' muthafucka thought, n' dat ought ta be some kind of phat omen. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. But da ruffneck distrusted omens, phat or bad. And meetin two playas wit tha shine up in one dizzle (when he probably didn't run across mo' than four or five up in tha course of a year) might not mean anything. That feelin of finality, a gangbangin' feeling

(like thangs is all wrapped up)

he could not straight-up define was still straight-up much wit his muthafuckin ass. Well shiiiit, it was

Da Buick wanted ta skid sideways round a tight curve n' Hallorann jockeyed it carefully, hardly darin ta breathe yo. Dude turned on tha radio again n' again n' again n' dat shiznit was Aretha, n' Aretha was just fine yo. He'd share his Hertz Buick wit her any day.

Another gust of wind struck tha car, makin it rock n' slip around. Hallorann cursed it n' hunched mo' closely over tha wheel fo' realz. Aretha finished her cold lil' woo wop n' then tha jock was on again, spittin some lyrics ta his ass dat rollin todizzle was a phat way ta git capped.

Hallorann snapped tha radio off.

Dude did make it ta Sidewinder, although da thug was four n' a half minutes on tha road between Estes Park n' there, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. By tha time he gots ta tha Upland Highway dat shiznit was full dark yo, but tha snowstorm flossed no sign of abating. Twice he'd had ta stop up in front of drifts dat was as high as his car's hood n' wait fo' tha plows ta come along n' knock holez up in dem wild-ass muthafuckas fo' realz. At one of tha drifts tha plow had come up on his side of tha road n' there had been another close call. Da driver had merely swung round his car, not gettin up ta chew tha fat yo, but da ruffneck did serve up one of tha two finger gestures dat all Gangstas above tha age of ten recognize, n' dat shiznit was not tha peace sign.

It seemed dat as da ruffneck drew closer ta tha Overlook, his need ta hurry became mo' n' mo' compulsive yo. Dude found his dirty ass glancin at his wristwatch almost constantly. Da handz seemed ta be flyin along.

Ten minutes afta dat schmoooove muthafucka had turned onto tha Upland, he passed two signs. Da whoopin wind had cleared both of they snow pack so da thug was able ta read dem wild-ass muthafuckas. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. SIDEWINDER 10, tha straight-up original gangsta holla'd. Da second: ROAD CLOSED 12 MILES AHEAD DURING WINTER MONTHS.

"Larry Durkin," Hallorann muttered ta his dirty ass yo. His dark grill was strained n' tense up in tha muted chronic glow of tha dashboard instruments, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. Dat shiznit was ten afta six. "Da Conoco by tha library. Larry-"

And dat was when it struck his ass full-force, tha smell of oranges n' tha thought-force, heavy n' hateful, murderous:

(GET OUT OF HERE THIS IS NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS TURN AROUND TURN AROUND OR WE'LL KILL YOU HANG YOU UP FROM A TREE LIMB YOU FUCKING JUNGLE-BUNNY COON AND THEN BURN THE BODY THAT'S WHAT WE DO PEOPLE LIKE YOU WITH SO TURN AROUND NOW)

Hallorann screamed up in tha close confinez of tha car. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Da message did not come ta his ass up in lyrics but up in a seriez of rebuslike images dat was slammed tha fuck into his head wit terrific force yo. Dude took his handz from tha steerin wheel ta blot tha pictures out.

Then tha hoopty smashed broadside tha fuck into one of tha embankments, rebounded, slewed halfway around, n' came ta a stop. Da rear wheels spun uselessly.

Hallorann snapped tha gearshift tha fuck into park, n' then covered his wild lil' grill wit his handz yo. Dude did not precisely cry; what tha fuck escaped his ass was a uneven huh-huh-huh sound. His chest heaved. Dude knew dat if dat blast had taken his ass on a stretch of road wit a thugged-out dropoff on one side or tha other, he might well be dead now, nahmeean, biatch? Maybe dat had been tha idea fo' realz. And it might hit his ass again, at any time yo. Dude would gotta protect against it yo. Dude was surrounded by a red force of immense juice dat might done been memory yo. Dude was drownin up in instinct.

Dude took his handz away from his wild lil' grill n' opened his wild lil' fuckin eyes cautiously. Nothing. If there was suttin' tryin ta scare his ass again, it wasn't gettin all up in cause I gots dem finger-lickin' chickens wit tha siz-auce yo. Dude was closed off.

Had dat happened ta tha boy, biatch? Dear God, had dat happened ta tha lil boy?

And of all tha images, tha one dat bothered his ass tha roost was dat dull whackin sound, like a hammer splattin tha fuck into thick cheese n' you can put dat on yo' toast. What did dat mean?.

(Jesus, not dat lil boy. Jizzy, please.)

Dude dropped tha gearshift lever tha fuck into low range n' fed tha engine gas a lil at a time. Da wheels spun, caught, spun, n' caught again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da Buick fuckin started ta move, its headlights cuttin weakly all up in tha swirlin snow yo. Dude looked at his watch fo' realz. Almost six-thirty now fo' realz. And da thug was beginnin ta feel dat was straight-up late indeed.

Chapta 50. Redrum
Wendy Torrizzle stood indecisive up in tha middle of tha bedroom, lookin at her son, whoz ass had fallen fast asleep.

Half a minute ago tha soundz had ceased. All of them, all at once. Da elevator, tha party, tha sound of room doors openin n' closing. Instead of easin her mind it made tha tension dat had been buildin up in her even worse; dat shiznit was like a malefic hush before tha storm's final brutal push. But Danny had dozed off almost at once; first tha fuck into a light, twitchin doze, n' up in tha last ten minutes or so a heavier chill. Even lookin directly at his ass dat thugged-out biiiatch could barely peep tha slow rise n' fall of his narrow chest.

Bitch wondered when dat schmoooove muthafucka had last gotten a gangbangin' full night's chill, one without tormentin trips or long periodz of dark wakefulness, listenin ta revels dat had only become audible-and visible-to her up in tha last couple days, as tha Overlook's grip on tha three of dem tightened.

(Real psycho phenomena or crew hypnosis?)

Bitch didn't know, n' didn't be thinkin it mattered. What had been goin' down was just as deadly either way. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch looked at Danny n' thought

(Dogg grant he lie still)

that if da thug was undisturbed, he might chill tha rest of tha night all up in cause I gots dem finger-lickin' chickens wit tha siz-auce. Whatever talent dat schmoooove muthafucka had, da thug was still a lil' small-ass pimp n' he needed his bangin rest.

Dat shiznit was Jack dat freaky freaky biatch had begun ta worry about.,

Bitch grimaced wit sudden pain, took her hand away from her grill, n' saw dat freaky freaky biatch had torn off one of her fingernails fo' realz. And her nails was one thang she'd always tried ta keep sick. They weren't long enough ta be called hooks yo, but still sickly shaped and

(and what tha fuck is you worryin bout yo' fingernails for?)

Bitch laughed a lil yo, but dat shiznit was a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shaky sound, without amusement.

First Jack had stopped howlin n' batterin all up in tha door. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Then tha jam had begun again n' again n' again n' again n' again n' again n' again

(or done did it eva stop, biatch? done did it sometimes just drift tha fuck into a slightly different angle of time where they weren't meant ta hear it?)

counterpointed by tha crashing, bangin elevator. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Then dat had stopped. In dat freshly smoked up silence, as Danny had been fallin asleep, dat freaky freaky biatch had fancied dat freaky freaky biatch heard low, conspiratorial voices comin from tha kitchen almost directly below dem wild-ass muthafuckas fo' realz. At first dat freaky freaky biatch had dissed n' dismissed it as tha wind, which could mimic nuff different human vocal ranges, from a papery dirtnapbed whisper round tha doors n' window frames ta a gangbangin' full-out scream round tha eaves... tha sound of a biatch fleein a murderer up in a cold-ass lil skanky melodrama. Yet, chillin stiffly beside Danny, tha scam dat dat shiznit was indeed voices became mo' n' mo' convincing.,

Jack n' one of mah thugs, discussin his wild lil' fuckin escape from tha pan-

try.

Discussin tha cappin' of his hoe n' son.

It would be not a god damn thang freshly smoked up inside these walls; cappin' had been done here before.

Bitch had gone ta tha heatin vent n' had placed her ear against it yo, but at dat exact moment tha furnace had come on, n' any sound was lost up in tha rush of warm air comin up from tha basement. When tha furnace had kicked off again, five minutes ago, tha place was straight-up silent except fo' tha wind, tha gritty spatta of snow against tha building, n' tha occasionizzle groan of a funky-ass board.

Bitch looked down at her ripped fingernail. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Lil Small-Ass beadz of blood was oozin up from beneath dat shit.

(lack's gotten out.)

(Don't rap nonsense.)

(Yes, he's up yo. He's gotten a knife from tha kitchen or maybe tha meat cleaver n' shiznit yo. He's on his way up here up in dis biatch, struttin along tha sidez of tha risers so tha stairs won't creak.)

(! You're insane!)

Her lips was trembling, n' fo' a moment it seemed dat she must have cried tha lyrics up loud. But tha silence held.

Bitch felt watched.

Bitch whirled round n' stared all up in tha night-blackened window, n' a hideous white grill wit circlez of darknizz fo' eyes was gibberin up in at her, tha grill of a monstrous lunatic dat had been hidin up in these groanin walls all along-

Dat shiznit was only a pattern of frost on tha outside of tha glass.

Bitch let her breath up in a long, susurratin whisper of fear, n' it seemed ta her dat dat freaky freaky biatch heard, like clearly dis time, amused tittas from somewhere.

(You're jumpin at shadows. It's shitty enough without dis shit. By tomorrow morning, you'll be locked n loaded fo' tha rubber room.)

There was only one way ta allay dem fears n' she knew what tha fuck it was.

Bitch would gotta go down n' make shizzle Jack was still up in tha pantry.

Straight-up simple. Go downstairs yo. Have a peek. Come back up. Oh, by tha way, stop n' grab tha tray on tha registration counter n' shit. Da omelet would be a washout yo, but tha chronic could be reheated on tha hotplate by Jack's typewriter.

(Oh yeaaaa n' don't git capped if he's down there wit a knife.)

Bitch strutted ta tha dresser, tryin ta shake off tha mantle of fear dat lay on her n' shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Scattered across tha dresser's top was a pile of chizzle, a stack of gasoline chits fo' tha hotel truck, tha two pipes Jack brought wit his ass everywhere but rarely smoked... n' his key ring.

Bitch picked it up, held it up in her hand fo' a moment, n' then put it back down. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da scam of lockin tha bedroom door behind her had occurred yo, but it just didn't appeal. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack. Danny was asleep. Vague thoughtz of fire passed all up in her mind, n' suttin' else nibbled mo' strongly yo, but she let it go:

Wendy crossed tha room, stood indecisively by tha door fo' a moment, then took tha knife from tha pocket of her robe n' curled her right hand round tha wooden haft,:

Bitch pulled tha door open.

Da short corridor leadin ta they quartas was bare. Da electric wall flambeaux all shone brightly at they regular intervals, showin off tha rug's blue background n' sinuous, weavin pattern.

(See, biatch? No boogies here.)

(Fuck dat shit, of course not. They want you out. They want you ta do suttin' wack-ass n' biatchish, n' dat is exactly what tha fuck yo ass is bustin.)

Bitch hesitated again, miserably caught, not wantin ta leave Danny n' tha safety of tha crib n' all up in tha same time needin badly ta reassure her muthafuckin ass dat Jack was still.

safely packed away.

(Of course he is.)

(But tha voices)

(There was no voices. Dat shiznit was yo' imagination. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Dat shiznit was tha wind.)

"It wasn't tha wind."

Da sound of her own voice made her jump. But tha deadly certainty up in it made her go forward. Da knife swung by her side, catchin anglez of light n' throwin dem on tha silk wallpaper n' shiznit yo. Her slippers whispered against tha carpet's nap yo. Her nerves was rappin like wires.

Bitch reached tha corner of tha main corridor n' peered around, her mind stiffened fo' whatever she might peep there.

There was not a god damn thang ta see.

Afta a moment's hesitation she rounded tha corner n' fuckin started down tha main corridor. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Each step toward tha shadowy stairwell increased her dread n' made her aware dat dat biiiiatch was leavin her chillin lil hustla behind, ridin' solo n' unprotected. This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. Da sound of her slippers against tha carpet seemed louder n' louder up in her ears; twice she looked back over her shoulder ta convince her muthafuckin ass dat one of mah thugs wasn't creepin up behind her muthafuckin ass.

Bitch reached tha stairwell n' put her hand on tha cold newel post all up in tha top of tha railing. There was nineteen wide steps down ta tha lobby. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch had counted dem enough times ta know. Nineteen carpeted stair risers, n' nary a Jack crouchin on any one of dem wild-ass muthafuckas. Of course not. Jack was locked up in tha pantry behind a hefty steel bolt n' a thick wooden door.

But tha lobby was dark n' oh so full of shadows.

Her pulse thudded steadily n' deeply up in her throat.

Ahead n' slightly ta tha left, tha brass yaw of tha elevator stood mockingly open, invitin her ta step up in n' take tha ride of her game.

(No fuck you)

Da inside of tha hoopty had been draped wit pink n' white crepe streamers. Confetti had burst from two tubular jam favors. Lyin up in tha rear left corner was a empty forty of champagne.

Bitch sensed movement above her n' wheeled ta look up tha nineteen steps leadin ta tha dark second-floor landin n' saw nothing; yet there was a gangbangin' finger-lickin' disturbin corner-of-the-eye sensation dat thangs

(things)

had leaped back tha fuck into tha deeper darknizz of tha hallway up there just before her eyes could regista dem wild-ass muthafuckas.

Bitch looked down tha stairs again.

Her right hand was sweatin against tha wooden handle of tha knife; her big-ass booty switched it ta her left, wiped her right palm against tha pink terrycloth of her robe, n' switched tha knife back fo' realz. Almost unaware dat her mind had given her body tha command ta go forward, da hoe fuckin started down tha stairs, left foot then right, left foot then right, her free hand trailin lightly on tha banister.

(Where's tha party, biatch? Don't let me scare you away, you bunch of moldy sheets muthafucka! Not one scared biatch wit a knife biaaatch! Let's gotz a lil noize round here biaaatch! Let's gotz a lil game!)

Ten steps down, a thugged-out dozen, a funky-ass baker's dozen.

Da light from tha first-floor hall filtered a thugged-out dull yellow down here, n' she remembered dat dat biiiiatch would gotta turn on tha lobby lights either beside tha entrizzle ta tha dinin room or inside tha manager's crib.

Yet there was light comin from somewhere else, white n' muted.

Da fluorescents, of course. In tha kitchen.

Bitch paused on tha thirteenth step, tryin ta remember if dat freaky freaky biatch had turned dem off or left dem on when she n' Danny left. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch simply couldn't remember.

Below her, up in tha lobby, highbacked chairs hulked up in poolz of shadow. Da glass up in tha lobby doors was pressed white wit a uniform blanket of drifted snow. Brass studz up in tha sofa cushions gleamed faintly like pussaaaaay's eyes. There was a hundred places ta hide.

Her hairy-ass legs stilted wit fear, dat thugged-out biiiatch continued down.

Now seventeen, now eighteen, now nineteen.

(Lobby level, madam. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Step up carefully.)

Da ballroom doors was thrown wide, only blacknizz spillin out. From within came a steady ticking, like a funky-ass bomb. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch stiffened, then remembered tha clock on tha mantel, tha clock under glass. Jack or Danny must have wound dat shit... or maybe it had wound itself up, like every last muthafuckin thang else up in tha Overlook.

Bitch turned toward tha reception desk meanin ta go all up in tha gate n' tha manager's crib n' tha fuck into tha kitchen. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Gleamin dull silver, dat thugged-out biiiatch could peep tha intended lunch tray.

Then tha clock fuckin started ta strike, lil tinklin notes.

Wendy stiffened, her tongue risin ta tha roof of her grill. Then she chillaxed. Dat shiznit was strikin eight, dat was all. Eight o'clock

... five, six, seven...

Bitch counted tha strokes. Well shiiiit, it suddenly seemed wack ta move again n' again n' again until tha clock had stilled.

... eight... nine...

(?, biatch? Nine??)

... ten... eleven...

Suddenly, belatedly, it came ta her n' shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch turned back clumsily fo' tha stairs, knowin already dat biiiiatch was too late. But how tha fuck could dat freaky freaky biatch have known?

Twelve.

All tha lights up in tha ballroom went on. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. There was a huge, shriekin flourish of brass. Wendy screamed aloud, tha sound of her cry insignificant against tha blare issuin from dem brazen lungs.

"Unmask!" tha cry echoed. "Unmask! Unmask!"

Then they faded, as if down a long-ass corridor of time, leavin her ridin' solo again.

Fuck dat shit, not ridin' solo.

Bitch turned n' da thug was comin fo' her muthafuckin ass.

Dat shiznit was Jack n' yet not Jack yo. His eyes was lit wit a vacant, murderous glow; his wild lil' familiar grill now wore a quivering, joyless grin.

Dude had tha Toque mallet up in one hand.

"Thought you'd lock me in, biatch? Is dat what tha fuck you thought you'd do?"

Da mallet whistled all up in tha air. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch stepped backward, tripped over a hassock, fell tha fuck ta tha lobby rug.

"Jack-"

"Yo ass biiiatch," da thug whispered. "I know what tha fuck yo ass is."

Da mallet came down again n' again n' again wit whistling, deadly velocitizzle n' buried itself up in her soft stomach. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch screamed, suddenly submerged up in a ocean of pain. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Dimly her big-ass booty saw tha mallet rebound. Well shiiiit, it came ta her wit sudden numbin realitizzle dat he meant ta beat her ta dirtnap wit tha mallet dat schmoooove muthafucka held up in his hands.

Bitch tried ta cry up ta his ass again, ta beg his ass ta stop fo' Danny's sake yo, but her breath had been knocked loose. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch could only force up a weak whimper, hardly a sound at all.

"Now. Now, by Christ," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, grinnin yo. Dude kicked tha hassock outta his way. "I guess you'll take yo' medicine now, nahmeean?"

Da mallet whickered down. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Wendy rolled ta her left, her robe tanglin above her knees. Jack's hold on tha mallet was jarred loose when it hit tha floor yo. Dude had ta stoop n' pick it up, n' while da ruffneck did she ran fo' tha stairs, tha breath at last sobbin back tha fuck into her n' shiznit yo. Her stomach was a funky-ass bruise of throbbin pain.

"Bitch," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd all up in his wild lil' freakadelic grin, n' fuckin started ta come afta her n' shit. "Yo ass stinkin biiiatch, I guess you'll git what's comin ta you, biatch. I guess you will."

Bitch heard tha mallet whistle all up in tha air n' then agony blew up like a muthafucka on her right side as tha mallet-head took her just below tha line of her breasts, breakin two ribs. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch fell tha fuck forward on tha steps n' freshly smoked up agony ripped her as her big-ass booty struck on tha wounded side. Yet instinct made her roll over, roll away, n' tha mallet whizzed past tha side of her face, missin by a naked inch. Well shiiiit, it struck tha deep pile of tha stair carpetin wit a muffled thud. That was when her big-ass booty saw tha knife, which had been jarred outta her hand by her fall. Well shiiiit, it lay glitterin on tha fourth stair riser.

"Bitch," he repeated. This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. Da mallet came down. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch shoved her muthafuckin ass upward n' it landed just below her kneecap yo. Her lower leg was suddenly on fire. Blood fuckin started ta trickle down her calf fo' realz. And then tha mallet was comin down again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch jerked her head away from it n' it smashed tha fuck into tha stair riser up in tha hollow between her neck n' shoulder, scrapin away tha flesh from her ear.

Dude brought tha mallet down again n' again n' again n' dis time she rolled toward him, down tha stairs, inside tha arc of his swin fo' realz. A shriek escaped her as her fucked up ribs thumped n' grated. This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch struck his shins wit her body while da thug was offbalizzle n' he fell tha fuck backward wit a yell of anger n' surprise, his wild lil' feet jiggin ta keep they purchase on tha stair riser n' shit. Then tha pimpin' muthafucka thumped ta tha floor, tha mallet flyin from his hand. Dude sat up, starin at her fo' a moment wit shocked eyes.

"I'll bust a cap up in you fo' that," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd.

Dude rolled over n' stretched up fo' tha handle of tha mallet. Wendy forced her muthafuckin ass ta her Nikes yo. Her left leg busted bolt afta bolt of pain all tha way up ta her hip yo. Her grill was ashy pale but set. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch leaped onto his back as his hand closed over tha shaft of tha Toque mallet.

"Oh dear God!" her big-ass booty screamed ta tha Overlook's shadowy lobby, n' buried tha kitchen knife up in his fuckin lower back up ta tha handle.

Dude stiffened beneath her n' then shrieked. Biatch thought dat freaky freaky biatch had never heard such a wack sound up in her whole game; dat shiznit was as if tha straight-up boardz n' windows n' doorz of tha hotel had screamed. Well shiiiit, it seemed ta go on n' on while he remained board-stiff beneath her weight. They was like a parlor charade of cow n' rider n' shit. Except dat tha back of his bangin redand-black-checked flannel hoodie was growin darker, sodden, wit spreadin blood.

Then his schmoooove ass collapsed forward on his wild lil' face, buckin her off on her hurt side, makin her groan.

Bitch lay breathang harshly fo' a time, unable ta move. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch was a excruciatin throb of pain from one end ta tha other n' shit. Every time she inhaled, suttin' jabbed viciously at her, n' her neck was wet wit blood from her grazed ear.

There was only tha sound of her struggle ta breathe, tha wind, n' tha tickin clock up in tha ballroom.

At last she forced her muthafuckin ass ta her feet n' hobbled across ta tha stairway. When she gots there dat thugged-out biiiatch clung ta tha newel post, head down, wavez of faintnizz washin over her n' shit. When it had passed a lil, da hoe fuckin started ta climb, rockin her unhurt leg n' pullin wit her arms on tha banista n' shit. Once she looked up, expectin ta peep Danny there yo, but tha stairway was empty.

(Thank Dogg da perved-out muthafucka slept all up in it give props ta Dogg give props ta God)

Six steps up dat freaky freaky biatch had ta rest, her head down, her blond afro coiled on n' over tha banista n' shiznit fo' realz. Air whistled painfully all up in her throat, as if it had grown barbs yo. Her right side was a swollen, bangin' mass.

(Come on Wendy come on oldschool hoe git a locked door behind you n' then peep tha damage thirteen mo' ta go not so bad. And when you git ta tha upstairs corridor you can crawl. I give mah permission.)

Bitch drew up in as much breath as her fucked up ribs would allow n' half-pulled, half-fell up another riser n' shiznit fo' realz. And another.

Bitch was on tha ninth, almost halfway up, when Jack's voice came from behind n' below her n' shiznit yo. Dude holla'd thickly: "Yo ass biiiatch. Yo ass capped mah dirty ass."

Terror as black as midnight swept all up in her n' shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch looked over her shoulder n' saw Jack gettin slowly ta his Nikes.

His back was bowed over, n' dat thugged-out biiiatch could peep tha handle of tha kitchen knife stickin outta it yo. His eyes seemed ta have contracted, almost ta have lost theyselves up in tha pale, saggin foldz of tha skin round dem wild-ass muthafuckas yo. Dude was graspin tha roque mallet loosely up in his fuckin left hand. Da end of dat shiznit was bloody fo' realz. A scrap of her pink terrycloth robe stuck almost up in tha center.

"I'll hit you wit yo' medicine," da thug whispered, n' fuckin started ta stagger toward tha stairs.

Whimperin wit fear, da hoe fuckin started ta pull her muthafuckin ass upward again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Ten steps, a thugged-out dozen, a funky-ass baker's dozen. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. But still tha first-floor hallway looked as far above her as a unattainable mountain peak. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch was pantin now, her side shriekin up in protest yo. Her afro swung wildly back n' forth up in front of her face. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Sweat stung her eyes. Da tickin of tha domed clock up in tha ballroom seemed ta fill her cars, n' counterpointin it, Jack's panting, agonized gasps as his thugged-out lil' punk-ass fuckin started ta mount tha stairs.

Chapta 51. Hallorann Arrives
Larry Durkin was a tall n' skinny playa wit a morose grill overtopped wit a luxuriant mane of red afro yo. Hallorann had caught his ass just as da thug was leavin tha Conoco station, tha morose grill buried deeply inside a army-issue parka yo. Dude was reluctant ta do any mo' bidnizz dat stormy dizzle no matta how tha fuck far Hallorann had come, n' even mo' reluctant ta rent one of his cold-ass two snowmobilez up ta dis wild-eyed black playa whoz ass insisted on goin up ta tha oldschool Overlook fo' realz. Among playas whoz ass had dropped most of they lives up in tha lil hood of Sidewinder, tha hotel had a smelly reputation. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Murder had been done up there, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho fo' realz. A bunch of hoodz had run tha place fo' a while, n' cutthroat bidnizzmen had run it fo' a while, like a muthafucka fo' realz. And thangs had been done up all up in tha oldschool Overlook dat never made tha papers, cuz scrilla has a way of rappin'. But tha playas up in Sidewinder had a pimpin' phat idea. Most of tha hotel's chambermaidz came from here, n' chambermaidz peep all muthafuckin day.

But when Hallorann mentioned Howard Cottrell's name n' flossed Durkin tha tag inside one of tha blue mittens, tha gas station balla thawed.

"Sent you here, did he?" Durkin asked, unlockin one of tha garage bays n' leadin Hallorann inside. "Dope ta know tha oldschool rip's gots some sense left.. n' you KNOWS da thug was plumb outta dat shit." Dude flicked a switch n' a funky-ass bank of straight-up oldschool n' straight-up dirty fluorescents buzzed wearily tha fuck into game. "Now what tha fuck up in tha tarnal creation would you want up at dat place, fella?"

Hallorann's nerve had begun ta crack. Da last few milez tha fuck into Sidewinder had been straight-up bad. Once a gust of wind dat must done been toolin along at betta than sixty milez a minute had floated tha Buick all tha way round up in a 360 turn, so check it before ya wreck it. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. And there was still milez ta travel wit Dogg ridin' solo knew what tha fuck all up in tha other end of dem wild-ass muthafuckas yo. Dude was terrified fo' tha boy. Now dat shiznit was almost ten minutes ta seven n' dat schmoooove muthafucka had dis whole cold lil' woo wop n' breakdizzle ta go all up in again.

"Some Muthafucka is up in shiznit up there," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd straight-up carefully. "Da lil hustla of tha caretaker."

"Who, biatch? Torrance's boy, biatch? Now what tha fuck kind of shiznit could his thugged-out lil' punk-ass be in?"

"I don't know," Hallorann muttered. Dude felt sick wit tha time dis was takin yo. Dude was bustin lyrics wit a cold-ass lil ghetto dude, n' he knew dat all ghetto pimps feel a similar need ta approach they bidnizz obliquely, ta smell round its corners n' sides before plungin tha fuck into tha middle of dealing. But there was no time, cuz now da thug was one scared nizzle n' if dis went on much longer he just might decizzle ta cut n' run.

"Look," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. "Please. I need ta go up there n' I gotta gotz a snowmobile ta git there, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. I'll pay yo' price yo, but fo' God's sake let me git on wit mah bidnizz!"

"All right," Durkin holla'd, unperturbed. "If Howard busted you, that's phat enough cause I gots dem finger-lickin' chickens wit tha siz-auce. Yo ass take dis ArcticCat. I'll put five gallonz of gas up in tha can. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Tank's full. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. She'll git you up n' back down, I guess."

"Nuff props," Hallorann holla'd, not like steadily.

"I'll take twenty dollars. That includes tha ethyl."

Hallorann fumbled a twenty outta his wallet n' handed it over n' shit. Durkin tucked it tha fuck into one of his hoodie pockets wit hardly a look.

"Guess maybe we betta trade jackets, too," Durkin holla'd, pullin off his thugged-out lil' parka. "That overcoat of yours ain't gonna be worth nothin tonight. Yo ass trade me back when you return tha snowsled."

"Oh, hey, I couldn't-"

"Don't fuss wit me," Durkin interrupted, still mildly. "I ain't bustin you up ta freeze. I only gots ta strutt down two blocks n' I'm at mah own supper table. Give it over."

Slightly dazed, Hallorann traded his overcoat fo' Durkin's fur-lined parka. Overhead tha fluorescents buzzed faintly, remindin his ass of tha lights up in tha Overlook's kitchen.

"Torrance's boy," Durkin holla'd, n' shook his head. "Good-lookin lil tyke, ain't he, biatch? Dude n his fuckin lil' daddy was up in here a shitload before tha snow straight-up flew. Drivin tha hotel truck, mostly. Looked ta me like tha two of em was just bout as tight as they could get. That's one lil pimp dat loves his fuckin lil' daddy yo. Hope he's all right."

"So do I." Hallorann zipped tha parka n' tied tha hood.

"Lemme help you push dat out," Durkin holla'd. They rolled tha snowmobile across tha oil-stained concrete n' toward tha garage bay. "Yo ass eva drove one of these before?"

"No.

"Well, there's not a god damn thang ta dat shit. Da instructions is pasted there on tha dashboard yo, but all there straight-up is, is stop n' go. Yo crazy-ass throttle's here, just like a motorcycle throttle. Brake on tha other side. Lean wit it on tha turns. This baby will do seventy on hardpack yo, but on dis powder you'll git no mo' than fifty n' that's pushin dat shit."

Now they was up in tha steez station's snow-filled front lot, n' Durkin had raised his voice ta make his dirty ass heard over tha batterin of tha wind. "Stay on tha road!" da perved-out muthafucka shouted at Hallorann's ear. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. "Keep yo' eye on tha guardrail posts n' tha signs n' you'll be all right, I guess. If you git off tha road, you're goin ta be dead as fuckin fried chicken. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Understand?"

Hallorann nodded.

"Wait a minute!" Durkin holla'd at him, n' ran back tha fuck into tha garage bay.

While da thug was gone, Hallorann turned tha key up in tha ignizzle n' pumped tha throttle a lil. Da snowmobile coughed tha fuck into brash, choppy game.

Durkin came back wit a red n' black ski mask.

"Put dis on under yo' hood!" da perved-out muthafucka shouted.

Hallorann dragged it on. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Dat shiznit was a tight fit yo, but it cut tha last of tha numbin wind off from his cheeks n' forehead n' chin.

Durkin leaned close ta make his dirty ass heard.

"I guess you must know bout thangs tha same ol' dirty way Howie do sometimes," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. "It don't matter, except dat place has gots a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shitty-ass hype round here, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. I'll hit you wit a rifle if you want dat shit."

"I don't be thinkin it would do any good," Hallorann shouted back.

"You're tha boss. But if you git dat boy, you brang his ass ta Sixteen Peach Lane. Da hoe'll have some chronic on."

"Okay. Thanks fo' every last muthafuckin thang."

"Yo ass peep out!" Durkin yelled. "Stay on tha road!"

Hallorann nodded n' twisted tha throttle slowly. Da snowmobile purred forward, tha headlamp cuttin a cold-ass lil clean cone of light all up in tha thickly fallin snow yo. Dude saw Durkin's upraised hand up in tha rearview mirror, n' raised his own up in return, so check it before ya wreck it. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Then he nudged tha handlebars ta tha left n' was travelin up Main Street, tha snowmobile coursin smoothly all up in tha white light thrown by tha streetlamps. Da speedometa stood at thirty milez a hour. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Dat shiznit was ten past seven. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. At tha Overlook, Wendy n' Danny was chillin n' Jack Torrizzle was discussin mattaz of game n' dirtnap wit tha previous caretaker.

Five blocks up Main, tha streetlamps ended. For half a mile there was lil' small-ass houses, all buttoned tightly up against tha storm, n' then only wind-howlin darkness... In tha black again n' again n' again wit no light but tha thin spear of tha snowmobile's headlamp, terror closed up in on his ass again, a cold-ass lil childlike fear, dismal n' disheartenin yo. Dude had never felt so ridin' solo. For nuff muthafuckin minutes, as tha few lightz of Sidewinder dwindled away n' disappeared up in tha rearview, tha urge ta turn round n' go back was almost insurmountable yo. Dude reflected dat fo' all of Durkin's concern fo' Jack Torrance's boy, dat schmoooove muthafucka had not offered ta take tha other snowmobile n' come wit his muthafuckin ass.

(That place has gots a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shitty-ass hype round here.)

Clenchin his cold-ass teeth, tha pimpin' muthafucka turned tha throttle higher n' peeped tha needle on tha speedometa climb past forty n' settle at forty-five yo. Dude seemed ta be goin horribly fast n' yet da thug was afraid it wasn't fast enough cause I gots dem finger-lickin' chickens wit tha siz-auce fo' realz. At dis speed it would take his ass almost a minute ta git ta tha Overlook. But at a higher speed he might not git there at all.

Dude kept his wild lil' fuckin eyes glued ta tha passin guardrails n' tha dime-sized reflectors mounted on top of each one. Many of dem was buried under drifts, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. Twice da perved-out muthafucka saw curve signs dangerously late n' felt tha snowmobile ridin up tha drifts dat maxed tha dropoff before turnin back onto where tha road was up in tha summertime. Da odometa counted off tha milez at a maddeningly slow clip-five, ten, finally fifteen. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Even behind tha knitted ski mask his wild lil' grill was beginnin ta stiffen up n' his hairy-ass legs was growin numb.

(Guess I'd give a hundred bucks fo' a pair of ski pants.)

As each mile turned over, his cold-ass terror grew-as if tha place had a poison atmosphere dat thickened as you neared it yo. Had it eva been like dis before, biatch? Dude had never straight-up was horny bout tha Overlook, n' there had been others whoz ass shared his wild lil' feelin yo, but it had never been like all dis bullshit.

Dude could feel tha voice dat had almost wrecked his ass outside of Sidewinder still tryin ta git in, ta git past his fuckin lil' defenses ta tha soft meat inside. If it had been phat twenty-five milez back, how tha fuck much stronger would it be now, biatch? Dude couldn't keep it up entirely. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Some of dat shiznit was slippin through, floodin his dome wit sinista subliminal images. Mo' n' mo' he gots tha image of a funky-ass badly hurt biatch up in a funky-ass bathroom, holdin her handz up uselessly ta ward off a funky-ass blow, n' he felt mo' n' mo' dat tha biatch must be-

(Jesus, peep out!)

Da embankment was loomin up ahead of his ass like a gangbangin' freight train. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Woolgathering, dat schmoooove muthafucka had missed a turn sign. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude jerked tha snowmobile's steerin gear hard right n' it swung around, tiltin as it did so. From underneath came tha harsh gratin sound of tha snowtread on rock yo. Dude thought tha snowmobile was goin ta dump him, n' it did totta on tha knife-edge of balizzle before halfdriving, half-skiddin back down ta tha mo' or less level surface of tha snowburied road. Then tha dropoff was ahead of him, tha headlamp showin a abrupt end ta tha snowcover n' darknizz beyond dis shiznit yo. Dude turned tha snowmobile tha other way, a pulse whoopin sickly up in his cold-ass throat.

(Keep it on tha road Dicky oldschool chum.)

Dude forced his dirty ass ta turn tha throttle up another notch. Now tha speedometa needle was pegged just below fifty. Da wind howled n' roared. Da headlamp probed tha dark.

An unknown length of time later, his schmoooove ass came round a thugged-out driftbanked curve n' saw a glimmerin flash of light ahead. Just a glimpse, n' then dat shiznit was blotted up by a risin fold of land. Da glimpse was so brief da thug was persuadin his dirty ass it had been wishful thankin when another turn brought it up in view again, slightly closer, fo' another few seconds. There was no question of its realitizzle dis time; dat schmoooove muthafucka had peeped it from just dis angle a fuckin shitload of times before. Dat shiznit was tha Overlook. There was lights on tha straight-up original gangsta floor n' lobby levels, it looked like.

Some of his cold-ass terror-the part dat had ta do wit rollin off tha road or wreckin tha snowmobile on a unseen curve-melted entirely away. Da snowmobile swept surely tha fuck into tha straight-up original gangsta half of a S curve dat he now remembered confidently foot fo' foot, n' dat was when tha headlamp picked up the

(oh dear Jizzy god what tha fuck is it)

in tha road ahead of his muthafuckin ass. Limned up in stark blacks n' whites, Hallorann first thought dat shiznit was some hideously big-ass timberwolf dat had been driven down from tha high ghetto by tha storm. Then, as his schmoooove ass closed on it, he recognized it n' horror closed his cold-ass throat.

Not a wolf but a lion. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. A hedge lion.

Its features was a mask of black shadow n' powdered snow, its haunches wound tight ta sprin fo' realz. And it did spring, snow billowin round its pistonin rear hairy-ass legs up in a silent burst of crystal glitter.

Hallorann screamed n' twisted tha handlebars hard right, duckin low all up in tha same time. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Scratching, rippin pain scrawled itself across his wild lil' face, his neck, his shoulders. Da ski mask was torn open down tha back yo. Dude was hurled from tha snowmobile yo. Dude hit tha snow, plowed all up in it, rolled over.

Dude could feel it comin fo' his muthafuckin ass. In his nostrils there was a funky-ass bitta smell of chronic leaves n' holly fo' realz. A big-ass hedge paw batted his ass up in tha lil' small-ass of tha back n' he flew ten feet all up in tha air, splayed up like a rag doll yo. Dude saw tha snowmobile, riderless, strike tha embankment n' rear up, its headlamp searchin tha sky. Well shiiiit, it fell tha fuck over wit a thump n' stalled.

Then tha hedge lion was on his muthafuckin ass. There was a cold-ass lil crackling, rustlin sound. Somethang raked across tha front of tha parka, shreddin dat shit. Well shiiiit, it might done been stiff twigs yo, but Hallorann knew dat shiznit was claws.

"You're not there!" Hallorann screamed all up in tha circling, snarlin hedge lion. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. "You're not there at all!" Dude struggled ta his wild lil' feet n' juiced it up halfway ta tha snowmobile before tha lion lunged, battin his ass across tha head wit a needletipped paw yo. Hallorann saw silent, explodin lights.

"Not there," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd again yo, but dat shiznit was a gangbangin' fadin mutter n' shiznit yo. His knees unhinged n' dropped his ass tha fuck into tha snow yo. Dude crawled fo' tha snowmobile, tha right side of his wild lil' grill a scarf of blood. I be fly as a gangbangin' falcon, soarin all up in tha sky dawwwwg! Da lion struck his ass again, rollin his ass onto his back like a turtle. Well shiiiit, it roared playfully.

Hallorann struggled ta reach tha snowmobile. What he needed was there, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho fo' realz. And then tha lion was on his ass again, rippin n' clawing.

Chapta 52. Wendy n' Jack
Wendy risked another glizzle over her shoulder n' shit. Jack was on tha sixth riser, clingin ta tha banista much as dat biiiiatch was bustin her muthafuckin ass yo. Dude was still grinning, n' dark blood oozed slowly all up in tha grin n' slipped down tha line of his jaw yo. Dude bared his cold-ass teeth at her muthafuckin ass.

"I'm goin ta bash yo' domes in. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Bash dem right ta fuck in." Dude struggled up another riser.

Panic spurred her, n' tha ache up in her side diminished a lil. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch pulled her muthafuckin ass up as fast as dat thugged-out biiiatch could regardless of tha pain, yankin convulsively all up in tha banista n' shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch reached tha top n' threw a glizzle behind her muthafuckin ass.

Dude seemed ta be bustin strength rather than losin it yo. Dude was only four risers from tha top, measurin tha distizzle wit tha rogue mallet up in his fuckin left hand as he pulled his dirty ass up wit his bangin right.

"Right behind you," he panted all up in his bloody grin, as if readin her mind. "Right behind you now, biiiatch. With yo' medicine."

Bitch fled stumblingly down tha main corridor, handz pressed ta her side.

Da door ta one of tha rooms jerked open n' a playa wit a chronic ghoulmask on popped out. "Great party, isn't it?" Dude screamed tha fuck into her face, n' pulled tha waxed strang of a party-favor. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. There was a echoin bang n' suddenly crepe streamers was driftin all round her n' shit. Da playa up in tha ghoulmask cackled n' slammed back tha fuck into his bangin room. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch fell tha fuck forward onto tha carpet, full-length yo. Her right side seemed ta explode wit pain, n' she fought off tha blacknizz of unconsciousnizz desperately. Dimly dat thugged-out biiiatch could hear tha elevator hustlin again, n' beneath her splayed fingers dat thugged-out biiiatch could peep dat tha carpet pattern rocked up ta move, swayin n' twinin sinuously.

Da mallet slammed down behind her n' dat dunkadelic hoe threw her muthafuckin ass forward, sobbing. Over her shoulder her big-ass booty saw Jack stumble forward, overbalance, n' brang tha mallet down just before his schmoooove ass crashed ta tha carpet, expellin a funky-ass bright splash of blood onto tha nap.

Da mallet head struck her squarely between tha shoulder blades n' fo' a moment tha agony was so pimped out dat dat thugged-out biiiatch could only writhe, handz openin n' clenching. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Somethang inside her had snapped-she had heard it clearly, n' fo' all dem moments dat biiiiatch was aware only up in a muted, muffled way, as if dat biiiiatch was merely observin these thangs all up in a cold-ass lil cloudy wrappin of gauze.

Then full consciousnizz came back, terror n' pain wit dat shit.

Jack was tryin ta git up so his schmoooove ass could finish tha thang.

Wendy tried ta stand n' found dat shiznit was impossible. Electric bolts seemed ta course up n' down her back all up in tha effort. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch fuckin started ta crawl along up in a sidestroke motion. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Jack was crawlin afta her, rockin tha roque mallet as a cold-ass lil crutch or a cold-ass lil cane.

Bitch reached tha comer n' pulled her muthafuckin ass round it, rockin her handz ta yank all up in tha angle of tha wall yo. Her terror deepened-she would not have believed dat possible yo, but it was. Dat shiznit was a hundred times worse not ta be able ta peep his ass or know how tha fuck close da thug was getting. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch tore up fistfulz of tha carpet nappin pullin her muthafuckin ass along, n' dat biiiiatch was halfway down dis short hall before she noticed tha bedroom door was standin wide open.

(Danny dawwwwg! O Jizzy)

Bitch forced her muthafuckin ass ta her knees n' then clawed her way ta her feet, fingers slippin over tha silk wallpaper n' shiznit yo. Her nails pulled lil stripz of it loose. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch ignored tha wild-ass bullshit n' halfwalked, half-shambled all up in tha doorway as Jack came round tha far corner n' fuckin started ta lunge his way down toward tha open door, leanin on tha roque mallet.

Bitch caught tha edge of tha dresser, held her muthafuckin ass up against it, n' grabbed tha doorframe.

Jack shouted at her: "Don't you shut dat door playa! Goddam you, don't you dare shut dat shiznit son!"

Bitch slammed it closed n' blasted tha bolt yo. Her left hand pawed wildly all up in tha junk on tha dresser, knockin loose coins onto tha floor where they rolled up in every last muthafuckin direction. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Her hand seized tha key rang just as tha mallet whistled down against tha door, makin it tremble up in its frame. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch gots tha key tha fuck into tha lock on tha second stab n' twisted it ta tha right fo' realz. At tha sound of tha tumblaz falling, Jack screamed. Da mallet came down against tha door up in a volley of boomin blows dat made her flinch n' step back yo. How tha fuck could his thugged-out lil' punk-ass be bustin dat wit a knife up in his back, biatch? Where was he findin tha strength, biatch? Biatch wanted ta shriek Why aren't you dead, biatch? all up in tha locked door.

Instead dat dunkadelic hoe turned around. Biatch n' Danny would gotta go tha fuck into tha attached bathroom n' lock dat door, too, up in case Jack straight-up could break all up in tha bedroom door. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Da thought of escapin down tha dumb-waita shaft crossed her mind up in a wild burst, n' then she rejected dat shit. Danny was lil' small-ass enough ta fit tha fuck into it yo, but dat biiiiatch would be unable ta control tha rope pull yo. Dude might go crashin all tha way ta tha bottom.

Da bathroom it would gotta be fo' realz. And if Jack broke all up in tha fuck into there-

But dat biiiiatch wouldn't allow her muthafuckin ass ta be thinkin of dat shit.

"Danny, honey, you'll gotta raise up n-"

But tha bed was empty.

When dat schmoooove muthafucka had begun ta chill mo' soundly, dat freaky freaky biatch had thrown tha blankets n' one of tha quilts over his muthafuckin ass. Now they was thrown back.

"I'll git you, nahmean biiiatch?" Jack howled. "I'll get. both of you, nahmean biiiatch?" Every other word was punctuated wit a funky-ass blow from tha roque hammer, yet Wendy ignored both fo' realz. All of her attention was focused on dat empty bed.

"Come up here biaaatch! Unlock dis goddam door!"

"Danny?" dat biiiiatch whispered.

Of course... when Jack had beat down her n' shit. Well shiiiit, it had come all up in ta him, as violent emotions always seemed to. Perhaps he'd even peeped tha whole thang up in a nightmare yo. Dude was hiding.

Bitch fell tha fuck clumsily ta her knees, endurin another bolt of pain from her swollen n' bleedin leg, n' looked under tha bed. Nothang there but dustballs n' Jack's bedroom slippers.

Jack screamed her name, n' dis time when da perved-out muthafucka swung tha mallet, a long-ass splinta of wood jumped from tha door n' clattered off tha hardwood planking. Da next blow brought a sickening, splinterin crack, tha sound of dry kindlin under a hatchet. Da bloody mallet head, now splintered n' gouged up in its own right, bashed all up in tha freshly smoked up hole up in tha door, was withdrawn, n' came down again, bustin wooden shrapnel flyin across tha room.

Wendy pulled her muthafuckin ass ta her feet again n' again n' again rockin tha foot of tha bed, n' hobbled across tha room ta tha closet yo. Her fucked up ribs jabbed at her, makin her groan.

"Danny?"

Bitch brushed tha hung garments aside frantically; a shitload of dem slipped they hangers n' ballooned gracelessly ta tha floor yo. Dude was not up in tha closet.

Bitch hobbled toward tha bathroom n' as she reached tha door she glanced back over her shoulder n' shit. Da mallet crashed all up in again, widenin tha hole, n' then a hand rocked up, gropin fo' tha bolt. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch saw wit horror dat dat freaky freaky biatch had left Jack's key rang danglin from tha lock.

Da hand yanked tha bolt back, n' as it did so it struck tha bunched keys. They jingled merrily. Da hand clutched dem victoriously.

With a sob, she pushed her way tha fuck into tha bathroom n' slammed tha door just as tha bedroom door burst open n' Jack charged through, bellowing.

Wendy ran tha bolt n' twisted tha sprang lock, lookin round desperately. Da bathroom was empty. Danny wasn't here, either n' shiznit fo' realz. And as dat thugged-out biiiatch caught sight of her own bloodsmeared, horrified grill up in tha medicine cabinet mirror, dat biiiiatch was glad. Biatch had never believed dat lil pimps should be witnizz ta tha lil quarrelz of they muthafathas fo' realz. And like tha thang dat was now ravin all up in tha bedroom, overturnin thangs n' smashin them, would finally collapse before it could go afta her son. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Perhaps, dat dunkadelic hoe thought, it might be possible fo' her ta inflict even mo' damage on dat shit... bust a cap up in it, like.

Her eyes skated quickly over tha bathroom's machine-produced porcelain surfaces, lookin fo' anythang dat might serve as a weapon. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. There was a funky-ass bar of soap yo, but even wrapped up in a towel her dope ass didn't be thinkin it would be lethal enough cause I gots dem finger-lickin' chickens wit tha siz-auce. Everythang else was bolted down. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. God, was there not a god damn thang dat thugged-out biiiatch could do?

Beyond tha door, tha animal soundz of destruction went on n' on, accompanied by thick shouts dat they would "take they medicine" n' "pay fo' what tha fuck they'd done ta his muthafuckin ass." Dude would "show dem who's boss," They was "worthless mini-dawgs," tha both of dem wild-ass muthafuckas.

There was a thump as her record playa was overturned, a hollow crash as tha secondhand TV's picture tube was smashed, tha tinkle of windowglass followed by a cold-ass lil cold draft under tha bathroom door fo' realz. A dull thud as tha mattresses was ripped from tha twin bedz where they had slept together, hip ta hip. Boomings as Jack struck tha walls indiscriminately wit tha mallet.

There was not a god damn thang of tha real Jack up in dat howling, maundering, petulant voice, though cause I gots dem finger-lickin' chickens wit tha siz-auce. Well shiiiit, it alternately whined up in tonez of selfpitizzle n' rose up in lurid screams; it reminded her chillingly of tha screams dat sometimes rose up in tha geriatrics ward of tha hospitizzle where dat freaky freaky biatch had hit dat shiznit summers as a high school kid. Senile dementia. Jack wasn't up there no mo'. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch was hearin tha lunatic, ravin voice of tha Overlook itself.

Da mallet smashed tha fuck into tha bathroom door, knockin up a big-ass chunk of tha thin panelin yo. Half of a cold-ass lil crazed n' hustlin grill stared up in at her n' shit. Da grill n' cheeks n' throat was lathered up in blood, tha single eye dat thugged-out biiiatch could peep was tiny n' piggish n' glittering.

"Nowhere left ta run, you playaaaaaa," it panted at her all up in its grin. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da mallet descended again, knockin wood splintas tha fuck into tha tub n' against tha reflectin surface of tha medicine cabinet

(!! Da medicine cabinet!!)

A desperate whinin noise fuckin started ta escape her as dat biiiiatch whirled, pain temporarily forgotten, n' threw tha mirror door of tha cabinet back. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch fuckin started ta paw all up in its contents, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. Behind her dat hoarse voice bellowed: "Here I come now! Here I come now, you pig!" Dat shiznit was demolishin tha door up in a machinelike frenzy.

Bottlez n' jars fell tha fuck before her madly searchin fingerscough syrup, Vaseline, Clairol Herbal Essence shampoo, hydrogen peroxide, benzocaine-they fell tha fuck into tha sink n' shattered.

Her hand closed over tha dispenser of double-edged razor blades just as dat freaky freaky biatch heard tha hand again, fumblin fo' tha bolt n' tha sprang lock.

Bitch slipped one of tha razor blades out, fumblin at it, her breath comin up in harsh lil gasps. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch had cut tha bizzle of her thumb. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch whirled round n' slashed all up in tha hand, which had turned tha lock n' was now fumblin fo' tha bolt.

Jack screamed. Da hand was jerked back.

Panting, holdin tha razor blade between her thumb n' index finger, dat biiiiatch waited fo' his ass ta try again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude did, n' her big-ass booty slashed. Dude screamed again, tryin ta grab her hand, n' her big-ass booty slashed at his ass again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da razor blade turned up in her hand, cuttin her again, n' dropped ta tha tile floor by tha toilet.

Wendy slipped another blade outta tha dispenser n' waited.

Movement up in tha other room-

(?, biatch? goin away??)

And a sound comin all up in tha bedroom window fo' realz. A motor fo' realz. A high, insectile buzzin sound.

A roar of anger from Jack n' then-yes, fo'sho, dat biiiiatch was shizzle of it-he was leavin tha caretaker's crib, plowin all up in tha wreckage n' up tha fuck into tha hall.

(?, biatch? Someone comin a ranger Dick Hallorann??)

"Oh God," she muttered brokenly all up in a grill dat seemed filled wit fucked up sticks n' oldschool sawdust. "Oh God, oh please."

Bitch had ta leave now, had ta go find her lil hustla so they could grill tha rest of dis nightmare side by side. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch reached up n' fumbled all up in tha bolt yo. Her arm seemed ta stretch fo' milez fo' realz. At last she gots it ta come free. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch pushed tha door open, staggered out, n' was suddenly overcome by tha wack certainty dat Jack had only pretended ta leave, dat da thug was lyin up in wait fo' her:

Wendy looked around. Da room was empty, tha livin room like a muthafucka. Jumbled, fucked up shiznit all over dis biiiatch.

Da closet, biatch? Empty.

Then tha soft shadez of gray fuckin started ta wash over her n' she fell tha fuck down on tha mattress Jack had ripped from tha bed, semiconscious.

Chapta 53. Hallorann Laid Low
Hallorann reached tha overturned snowmobile just as, a mile n' a half away, Wendy was pullin her muthafuckin ass round tha corner n' tha fuck into tha short hallway leadin ta tha caretaker's crib.

It wasn't tha snowmobile da thug wanted but tha gascan held onto tha back by a pair of elastic straps yo. His hands, still clad up in Howard Cottrell's blue mittens, seized tha top strap n' pulled it free as tha hedge lion roared behind him-a sound dat seemed ta be mo' up in his head than outside of it fo' realz. A hard, brambly slap ta his fuckin left leg, makin tha knee rap wit pain as dat shiznit was driven up in a way tha joint had never been sposed ta fuckin bend yo, but it ain't no stoppin cause I be still poppin' fo' realz. A groan escaped Hallorann's clenched teeth. Well shiiiit, it would come fo' tha bust a cap up in any time now, pissed wit playin wit his muthafuckin ass.

Dude fumbled fo' tha second strap. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Sticky blood ran up in his wild lil' fuckin eyes.

(Roar playa! Slap!)

That one raked across his buttocks, almost tumblin his ass over n' away from tha snowmobile again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude held on-no exaggeration-for dear game.

Then dat schmoooove muthafucka had freed tha second strap yo. Dude clutched tha gascan ta his ass as tha lion struck again, rollin his ass over on his back yo. Dude saw it again, only a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shadow up in tha darknizz n' fallin snow, as nightmarish as a movin gargoyle yo. Hallorann twisted all up in tha can's cap as tha movin shadow stalked him, kickin up snowpuffs fo' realz. As it moved up in again n' again n' again tha cap spun free, releasin tha pungent smell of tha gasoline.

Hallorann gained his knees n' as it came at him, lowslung n' incredibly quick, da perved-out muthafucka splashed it wit tha gas.

There was a hissing, spittin sound n' it drew back.

"Gas!" Hallorann cried, his voice shrill n' breaking. "Gonna burn you, baby dawwwwg! Dig on it awhile!"

Da lion came at his ass again, still spittin angrily yo. Hallorann splashed it again n' again n' again but dis time tha lion didn't give. Well shiiiit, it charged ahead. Hallorann sensed rather than saw its head anglin at his wild lil' grill n' tha pimpin' muthafucka threw his dirty ass backward, partially gittin tha fuck aaway from dat shit. Yet tha lion still hit his upper rib cage a glancin blow, n' a gangbangin' flare of pain struck there, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. Gas gurgled outta tha can, which da perved-out muthafucka still held, n' doused his bangin right hand n' arm, cold as dirtnap.

Now he lay on his back up in a snow angel, ta tha right of tha snowmobile by bout ten paces. Da hissin lion was a funky-ass bulkin presence ta his fuckin left, closin up in again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Hallorann thought his schmoooove ass could peep its tail twitching.

Dude yanked Cottrell's mitten off his bangin right hand, tokin sodden wool n' gasoline yo. Dude ripped up tha hem of tha parka n' jammed his hand tha fuck into his baggy-ass pants pocket. Down up in there, along wit his keys n' his chizzle, was a straight-up battered oldschool Zippo lighter n' shiznit yo. Dude had looted it up in Germany up in 1954. Once tha hinge had fucked up n' dat schmoooove muthafucka had returned it ta tha Zippo factory n' they had repaired it without charge, just as advertised.

A nightmare flood of thoughts floodin all up in his crazy-ass mind up in a split second.

(Dear Zippo mah lighta was swallowed by a cold-ass lil crocodile dropped front a airplane lost up in tha Pacific trench saved mah crazy ass from a Kraut cap up in tha Battle of tha Bulge dear Zippo if dis fucker don't go dat lion is goin ta rip mah head off)

Da lighta was up yo. Dude clicked tha hood back. Da lion, rushin at him, a growl like rippin cloth, his wild lil' finger flickin tha striker wheel, spark, flame,

(my hand)

his gasoline-soaked hand suddenly ablaze, tha flames hustlin up tha sleeve of tha parka, no pain, no pain yet, tha lion shyin from tha torch suddenly blazin up in front of it, a hideous flickerin hedge sculpture wit eyes n' a grill, shyin away, too late.

Wincin all up in tha pain, Hallorann drove his blazin arm tha fuck into its stiff n' scratchy side.

In a instant tha whole creature was up in flames, a prancing, writhang pyre on tha snow. Well shiiiit, it bellowed up in rage n' pain, seemin ta chase its flamin tail as it zigzagged away from Hallorann.

Dude thrust his own arm deep tha fuck into tha snow, cappin' tha flames, unable ta take his wild lil' fuckin eyes from tha hedge lion's dirtnap agonies fo' a moment. Then, gasping, he gots ta his Nikes. Da arm of Durkin's parka was sooty but unburned, n' dat also busted lyrics bout his hand. Thirty yardz downhill from where da perved-out muthafucka stood, tha hedge lion had turned tha fuck into a gangbangin' firebizzle. Kick dat shit! Sparks flew all up in tha sky n' was viciously snatched away by tha wind. For a moment its ribs n' skull was etched up in orange flame n' then it seemed ta collapse, disintegrate, n' fall tha fuck into separate burnin piles.

(Never mind dat shit. Git moving.)

Dude picked up tha gascan n' struggled over ta tha snowmobile yo. His consciousnizz seemed ta be flickerin up in n' out, offerin his ass cuttings n' snippetz of home pornos but never tha whole picture. In one of these da thug was aware of yankin tha snowmobile back onto its tread n' then chillin on it, outta breath n' incapable of movin fo' all dem moments, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. In another, da thug was reattachin tha gascan, which was still half-full yo. His bead was thumpin horribly from tha gasfumes (and up in erection ta his battle wit tha hedge lion, da perved-out muthafucka supposed), n' da perved-out muthafucka saw by tha steamin hole up in tha snow beside his ass dat dat schmoooove muthafucka had vomited yo, but da thug was unable ta remember when.

Da snowmobile, tha engine still warm, fired immediately yo. Dude twisted tha throttle unevenly n' started forward wit a seriez of neck-snappin jerks dat made his head ache even mo' fiercely fo' realz. At first tha snowmobile wove fadedenly from side ta side yo, but by half-standin ta git his wild lil' grill above tha windscreen n' tha fuck into tha sharp, needlin blast of tha wind, da ruffneck drove a shitload of tha stupor outta his dirty ass yo. Dude opened tha throttle wider.

(Where is tha rest of tha hedge muthafuckas?)

Dude didn't know yo, but at least da thug wouldn't be caught unaware again.

Da Overlook loomed up in front of him, tha lighted first-floor windows throwin long yellow rectanglez onto tha snow. Da gate all up in tha foot of tha drive was locked n' da ruffneck dismounted afta a wary look around, prayin dat schmoooove muthafucka hadn't lost his keys when he pulled his fuckin lighta outta his thugged-out lil' pocket... no, they was there, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho yo. Dude picked all up in dem up in tha bright light thrown by tha snowmobile headlamp yo. Dude found tha right one n' unsnapped tha padlock, lettin it drop tha fuck into tha snow fo' realz. At first da ruffneck didn't be thinkin da thug was goin ta be able ta move tha gate anyway; he pawed frantically all up in tha snow surroundin it, disregardin tha throbbin agony up in his head n' tha fear dat one of tha other lions might be creepin up behind his muthafuckin ass yo. Dude managed ta pull it a gangbangin' foot n' a half away from tha gatepost, squeezed tha fuck into tha gap, n' pushed. Dude gots it ta move another two feet, enough room fo' tha snowmobile, n' threaded it through.

Dude became aware of movement ahead of his ass up in tha dark. Da hedge muthafuckas, all of them, was clustered all up in tha base of tha Overlook's steps, guardin tha way in, tha way out. Da lions prowled. Da dawg stood wit its front paws on tha straight-up original gangsta step.

Hallorann opened tha throttle wide n' tha snowmobile leaped forward, puffin snow up behind dat shit. In tha caretaker's crib, Jack Torrance's head jerked round all up in tha high, wasplike buzz of tha approachin engine, n' suddenly fuckin started ta move laboriously toward tha hallway again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da biiiatch wasn't blingin now, nahmeean, biatch? Da biiiatch could wait. Now dat shiznit was dis dirty nizzle's turn, so check it before ya wreck it. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. This dirty, interferin nizzle wit his nozzle up in where it didn't belong. First his ass n' then his son. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude would show dem wild-ass muthafuckas yo. Dude would show dem that... dat he... dat da thug waz of managerial timber son!

Outside, tha snowmobile rocketed along fasta n' fasta n' shit. Da hotel seemed ta surge toward dat shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Snow flew up in Hallorann's face. Da headlamp's oncomin glare spotlighted tha hedge shepherd's face, its blank n' socketless eyes.

Then it shrank away, leavin a openin yo. Hallorann yanked all up in tha snowmobile's steerin gear wit all his bangin remainin strength, n' it kicked round up in a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass sharp semicircle, throwin up cloudz of snow, threatenin ta tip over n' shit. Da rear end struck tha foot of tha porch steps n' rebounded. Hallorann was off up in a gangbangin' flash n' hustlin up tha steps yo. Dude stumbled, fell, picked his dirty ass up. Da dawg was growling-again up in his head-close behind his muthafuckin ass. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Somethang ripped all up in tha shoulder of tha parka n' then da thug was on tha porch, standin up in tha narrow corridor Jack had shoveled all up in tha snow, n' safe. They was too big-ass ta fit up in dis biatch.

Dude reached tha big-ass double doors which gave on tha lobby n' dug fo' his keys again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. While da thug was gettin dem tha pimpin' muthafucka tried tha knob n' it turned freely yo. Dude pushed his way in.

"Danny!" his schmoooove ass cried hoarsely. "Danny, where is yo slick ass?"

Silence came back.

His eyes traveled across tha lobby ta tha foot of tha wide stairs n' a harsh gasp escaped his muthafuckin ass. Da rug was splashed n' matted wit blood. I be fly as a gangbangin' falcon, soarin all up in tha sky dawwwwg! There was a scrap of pink terrycloth robe. Da trail of blood hustled up tha stairs. Da banista was also splashed wit dat shit.

"Oh Jizzy," he muttered, n' raised his voice again.

"Danny dawwwwg! DANNY!"

Da hotel's silence seemed ta mock his ass wit echoes which was almost there, sly n' oblique.

(Danny, biatch? Who's Danny, biatch? Anybody here know a Danny, biatch? Danny, Danny, who's gots tha Danny, biatch? Anybody fo' a game of spin tha Danny, biatch? Pin tha tail on tha Danny, biatch? Git outta here, black boy. No one here knows Danny from Adam.)

Jesus, had his schmoooove ass come all up in every last muthafuckin thang just ta be too late, biatch? Had it been done?

Dude ran up tha stairs two at a time n' stood all up in tha top of tha straight-up original gangsta floor. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Da blood hustled down toward tha caretaker's crib yo. Horror crept softly tha fuck into his veins n' tha fuck into his dome as his thugged-out lil' punk-ass fuckin started ta strutt toward tha short hall. Da hedge muthafuckas had been bad yo, but dis was worse. In his thugged-out ass da thug was already shizzle of what tha fuck da thug was goin ta find when he gots down there.

Dude was up in no hurry ta peep dat shit.

Jack had been hidin up in tha elevator when Hallorann came up tha stairs. Now his schmoooove ass crept up behind tha git into in tha snowcoated parka, a funky-ass bloodand gore-streaked phantom wit a smile upon its face. Da roque mallet was lifted as high as tha skanky, rippin pain up in his back

(?, biatch? did tha biiiatch stick me can't remember??)

would allow.

"Black boy," da thug whispered. "I'll teach you ta go stickin yo' nozzle up in other people's bidnizz."

Hallorann heard tha whisper n' fuckin started ta turn, ta duck, n' tha roque mallet whistled down. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da hood of tha parka matted tha blow yo, but not enough cause I gots dem finger-lickin' chickens wit tha siz-auce fo' realz. A rocket blew up like a muthafucka up in his head, leavin a cold-ass lil contrail of stars... n' then nothing.

Dude staggered against tha silk wallpaper n' Jack hit his ass again, tha roque mallet slicin sideways dis time, shatterin Hallorann's cheekbone n' most of tha teeth on tha left side of his jaw yo. Dude went down limply.

"Now," Jack whispered. "Now, by Christ" Where was Danny, biatch? Dude had bidnizz wit his cold-ass trespassin son.

Three minutes lata tha elevator door banged open on tha shadowed third floor. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Jack Torrizzle was up in it ridin' solo. Da hoopty had stopped only halfway tha fuck into tha doorway n' dat schmoooove muthafucka had ta boost his dirty ass up onto tha hall floor, wrigglin painfully like a cold-ass lil crippled thang yo. Dude dragged tha splintered roque mallet afta his muthafuckin ass. Outside tha eaves, tha wind howled n' roared. Jack's eyes rolled wildly up in they sockets, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. There was blood n' confetti up in his hair.

His lil hustla was up here, up here somewhere, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho yo. Dude could feel dat shit. Left ta his own devices, he might do anything: scribble on tha high-rollin' silk wallpaper wit his crayons, deface tha furnishings, break tha windows yo. Dude was a liar n' a cold-ass lil cheat n' da thug would gotta be chastised... harshly.

Jack Torrizzle struggled ta his Nikes.

"Danny?" his schmoooove ass called. "Danny, come here a minute, will yo slick ass, biatch? You've done suttin' wack n' I want you ta come f n' take yo' medicine like a man. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Danny, biatch? Danny!"

Chapta 54. Tony
(Danny...)

(Dannneee...)

Darknizz n' hallways yo. Dude was wanderin all up in darknizz n' hallways dat was like dem which lay within tha body of tha hotel but was somehow different. Da silkpapered walls stretched up n' up, n' even when his schmoooove ass craned his neck, Danny could not peep tha ceiling. Dat shiznit was lost up in dimnizz fo' realz. All tha doors was locked, n' they also rose up ta dimness. Below tha peepholez (in these giant doors they was tha size of gunsights), tiny skulls n' crossbones had been bolted ta each door instead of room numbers.

And somewhere, Tony was callin his muthafuckin ass.

(Dannneee...)

There was a poundin noise, one be knew well, n' hoarse shouts, faint wit distizzle yo. Dude could not make up word fo' word yo, but he knew tha text well enough by now yo. Dude had heard it before, up in trips n' awake.

Dude paused, a lil pimp not yet three muthafuckin years outta diapers, n' tried ta decizzle where da thug was, where he might be. There was fear yo, but dat shiznit was a gangbangin' fear his schmoooove ass could live wit yo. Dude had been afraid every last muthafuckin dizzle fo' two months now, ta a thugged-out degree dat ranged from dull disquiet ta outright, mind-bendin terror. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. This his schmoooove ass could live with. But da thug wanted ta know why Tony had come, why da thug was makin tha sound of his name up in dis hall dat was neither a part of real thangs nor of tha dreamland where Tony sometimes flossed his ass thangs. Why, where-

"Danny."

Far down tha giant hallway, almost as tiny as Danny his dirty ass, was a thugged-out dark figure. Tony.

"Where be I?" his schmoooove ass called softly ta Tony.

"Chillin," Tony holla'd. "Chillin up in yo' mommy n' daddy's bedroom." There was sadnizz up in Tony's voice.

"Danny," Tony holla'd. "Yo crazy-ass mutha is goin ta be badly hurt. Perhaps capped. Mista Muthafuckin yo. Hallorann, too,"

"No!"

Dude cried it up in a gangbangin' finger-lickin' distant grief, a terror dat seemed damped by these dreamy, dreary surroundings. Nonetheless, dirtnap images came ta him: dead froggy frog plastered ta tha turnpike like a grisly stamp; Daddy's fucked up peep lyin on top of a funky-ass box of junk ta be thrown out; gravestones wit a thugged-out dead thug under every last muthafuckin one; dead jay by tha telephone pole; tha cold junk Mommy scraped off tha plates n' down tha dark maw of tha garbage disposal.

Yet his schmoooove ass could not equate these simple symbols wit tha shiftin complex realitizzle of his crazy-ass mother; her big-ass booty satisfied his childish definizzle of eternity. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch had been when da thug was not. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch would continue ta be when da thug was not again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude could accept tha possibilitizzle of his own dirtnap, dat schmoooove muthafucka had dealt wit dat since tha encounta up in Room 217.

But not hers.

Not Daddy's.

Not eva.

Dude fuckin started ta struggle, n' tha darknizz n' tha hallway fuckin started ta waver n' shit. Tony's form became chimerical, indistinct.

"Don't!" Tony called. "Don't, Danny, don't do that!"

"She's not goin ta be dead hommie! She's not!"

"Then you gotta help her n' shit. Danny... you're up in a place deep down up in yo' own mind. Da place where I am. I'm a part of you, Danny."

"You're Tony. You're not mah dirty ass. I want mah mommy... I want mah mommy... "

"I didn't brang you here, Danny. Yo ass brought yo ass. Because you knew."

"No-"

"You've always known," Tony continued, n' his thugged-out lil' punk-ass fuckin started ta strutt closer n' shit. For tha last time, Tony fuckin started ta strutt closer n' shit. "You're deep down up in yo ass up in a place where not a god damn thang comes all up in cause I gots dem finger-lickin' chickens wit tha siz-auce. We're ridin' solo here fo' a lil while, Danny. This be a Overlook where no one can eva come. No clocks work here, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. None of tha keys fit dem n' they can never be wound up. Da doors have never been opened n' no one has eva stayed up in tha rooms. Boy it's gettin hot, yes indeed it is. But you can't stay long. Because it's coming."

"It..." Danny whispered fearfully, n' as da ruffneck did so tha irregular poundin noise seemed ta grow closer, louder n' shiznit yo. His terror, def n' distant a moment ago, became a mo' immediate thang. Now tha lyrics could be made up yo. Hoarse, huckstering; they was uttered up in a cold-ass lil coarse imitation of his wild lil' father's voice yo, but it wasn't Daddy yo. Dude knew dat now yo. Dude knew

(Yo ass brought yo ass. Because you knew.)

"Oh Tony, is it mah daddy?" Danny screamed. "Is it mah daddy that's comin ta git me son?"

Tony didn't answer n' shit. But Danny didn't need a answer n' shiznit yo. Dude knew fo' realz. A long n' nightmarish masquerade jam went on here, n' had gone on fo' years. Little by lil a gangbangin' force shitty accrued, as secret n' silent as interest up in a funky-ass bank account. Force, presence, shape, they was all only lyrics n' none of dem mattered. Well shiiiit, it wore nuff masks yo, but dat shiznit was all one. Now, somewhere, dat shiznit was comin fo' his muthafuckin ass. Dat shiznit was hidin behind Daddy's face, dat shiznit was imitatin Daddy's voice, dat shiznit was bustin Daddy's clothes.

But dat shiznit was not his fuckin lil' daddy.

Dat shiznit was not his fuckin lil' daddy.

"I've gots ta help them!" his schmoooove ass cried.

And now Tony stood directly up in front of him, n' lookin at Tony was like lookin tha fuck into a magic mirror n' seein his dirty ass up in ten years, tha eyes widely spaced n' straight-up dark, tha chin firm, tha grill thugged-outly molded. Da afro was light blond like his crazy-ass mother's, n' yet tha stamp on his wild lil' features was dat of his wild lil' father, as if Tony-as if tha Daniel Anthony Torrizzle dat would somedizzle be-was a halflin caught between daddy n' son, a pimp of both, a gangbangin' fusion.

"Yo ass gotta try ta help," Tony holla'd. "But yo' father... be's wit tha hotel now, Danny. It's where da thug wants ta be. Well shiiiit, it wants you too, cuz it's straight-up greedy."

Tony strutted past him, tha fuck into tha shadows,

"Wait!" Danny cried. "What can I-"

"He's close now," Tony holla'd, still struttin away. "You'll gotta run... hide... keep away from his muthafuckin ass. Keep away."

"Tony, I can'tl"

"But you've already started," Tony holla'd. "Yo ass will remember what tha fuck yo' daddy forgot."

Dude was gone.

And from somewhere near his wild lil' father's voice came, coldly wheedling: "Danny, biatch? Yo ass can come out, doc. Just a lil spanking, that's all. Take it like a playa n' it is ghon be all over n' shit. Us dudes don't need her, doc. Just you n' me, right, biatch? When we git dis lil... spanking... behind us, it is ghon be just you n' mah dirty ass."

Danny ran.

Behind him, tha thang's temper broke all up in tha shamblin charade of normality.

"Come here, you lil shitl Right nowl"

Down a long-ass hall, pantin n' gaspin fo' realz. Around a cold-ass lil corner n' shit. Up a gangbangin' flight of stairs fo' realz. And as da thug went, tha walls dat had been so high n' remote fuckin started ta come down; tha rug which had only been a funky-ass blur beneath his wild lil' feet took on tha familiar black n' blue pattern, sinuously woven together; tha doors became numbered again n' again n' again n' behind dem tha partizzles dat was all one went on n' on, populated by generationz of guests, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. Da air seemed ta be shimmerin round him, tha blowz of tha mallet against tha walls echoin n' re-echoin yo. Dude seemed ta be burstin all up in some thin placental womb from chill to

the rug outside tha Presidential Suite on tha third floor; lyin near his ass up in a funky-ass bloody heap was tha bodiez of two pimps dressed up in suits n' narrow ties. Put ya muthafuckin choppers up if ya feel dis! They had been taken up by shotgun blasts n' now they fuckin started ta stir up in front of his ass n' git up.

Dude drew up in breath ta scream but didn't.

(!! FALSE FACES!! NOT REAL!!)

They faded before his wild lil' freakadelic ga ze like oldschool photographs n' was gone.

But below him, tha faint sound of tha mallet against tha walls went on n' on, driftin up all up in tha elevator shaft n' tha stairwell. Da controllin force of tha Overlook, up in tha shape of his wild lil' father, blunderin round on tha straight-up original gangsta floor.

A door opened wit a thin screein sound behind his muthafuckin ass.

A decayed biatch up in a rotten silk gown pranced out, her yellowed n' splittin fingers dressed wit verdigris-caked rings yo. Heavy-bodied wasps crawled sluggishly over her face.

"Come in," dat biiiiatch whispered ta him, grinnin wit black lips. "Come up in n' we will daizzle tha taaaango..."

"False face!" dat schmoooove muthafucka hissed. "Not real!" Biatch drew back from his ass up in alarm, n' up in tha act of drawin back she faded n' was gone.

"Where is yo slick ass?" it screamed yo, but tha voice was still only up in his head. Dude could still hear tha thang dat was bustin Jack's grill down on tha straight-up original gangsta floor... n' suttin' else.

Da high, whinin sound of a approachin motor.

Danny's breath stopped up in his cold-ass throat wit a lil gasp. Was it just another grill of tha hotel, another illusion, biatch? Or was it Dick, biatch? Dude wanted-wanted desperately-to believe dat shiznit was Dick yo, but da ruffneck didn't dare take tha chance.

Dude retreated down tha main corridor, n' then took one of tha offshoots, his wild lil' feet whisperin on tha nap of tha carpet. Locked doors frowned down at his ass as they had done up in tha dreams, tha visions, only now da thug was up in tha ghetto of real thangs, where tha game was played fo' keeps.

Dude turned ta tha right n' came ta a halt, his thugged-out ass thuddin heavily up in his chest yo. Heat was blowin round his thugged-out ankles. From tha registers, of course. This must done been Daddy's dizzle ta heat tha westside win and

(Yo ass will remember what tha fuck yo' daddy forgot.)

What was it, biatch? Dude almost knew. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Somethang dat might save his ass n' Mommy, biatch? But Tony had holla'd da thug would gotta do it his dirty ass. What was it?

Dude sank down against tha wall, tryin desperately ta think. Dat shiznit was so hard... tha hotel kept tryin ta git tha fuck into his head... tha image of dat dark n' slumped form swingin tha mallet from side ta side, gougin tha wallpaper... bustin up puffz of plasta dust.

"Help me," he muttered. "Tony, help mah dirty ass."

And suddenly his thugged-out lil' punk-ass became aware dat tha hotel had grown dirtnaply silent. Da whinin sound of tha motor had stopped

(must not done been real)

and tha soundz of tha jam had stopped n' there was only tha wind, howlin n' whoopin endlessly.

Da elevator whirred tha fuck into sudden game.

Dat shiznit was comin up.

And Danny knew who-what-was up in dat shit.

Dude bolted ta his wild lil' feet, eyes starin wildly. Panic clutched round his thugged-out ass. Why had Tony busted his ass ta tha third floor, biatch? Dude was trapped up here, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho fo' realz. All tha doors was locked.

Da attic!

There was a attic, he knew yo. Dude had come up here wit daddy tha dizzle dat schmoooove muthafucka had salted tha rattraps round up there, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho yo. Dude hadn't allowed Danny ta come up wit his ass cuz of tha rats yo. Dude was afraid Danny might be bitten. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. But tha trapdoor which hustled ta tha attic was set tha fuck into tha ceilin of tha last short corridor up in dis wing. There was a pole leanin against tha wall. Daddy had pushed tha trapdoor open wit tha pole, there had been a ratchetin whir of counterweights as tha door went up n' a ladder had swung down. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. If his schmoooove ass could git up there n' pull tha ladder afta his muthafuckin ass...

Somewhere up in tha maze of corridors behind him, tha elevator came ta a stop. There was a metallic, rattlin crash as tha gate was thrown back fo' realz. And then a voice-not up in his head now but terribly real-called out: "Danny, biatch? Danny, come here a minute, will yo slick ass, biatch? You've done suttin' wack n' I want you ta come n' take yo' medicine like a man. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Danny, biatch? Danny!"

Obedience was so straight fuckin ingrained up in his ass dat he straight-up took two automatic steps toward tha sound of dat voice before stoppin yo. His handz curled tha fuck into fists at his sides.

(Not real! False grill biaaatch! I know what tha fuck yo ass is biaaatch! Take off yo' mask!)

"Danny!" it roared. "Come here, you pup! Come here n' take it like a man!" A loud, hollow boom as tha mallet struck tha wall. When tha voice roared up his name again n' again n' again it had chizzled location. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Well shiiiit, it had come closer.

In tha ghetto of real thangs, tha hunt was beginning.

Danny ran. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Feet silent on tha heavy carpet, he ran past tha closed doors, past tha silk figured wallpaper, past tha fire extinguisher bolted ta tha corner of tha wall yo. Dude hesitated, n' then plunged down tha final corridor. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Nothang all up in tha end but a funky-ass bolted door, n' nowhere left ta run.

But tha pole was still there, still leanin against tha wall where Daddy had left dat shit.

Danny snatched it up yo. Dude craned his neck ta stare up all up in tha trapdoor. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. There was a hook on tha end of tha pole n' you had ta catch it on a rang set tha fuck into tha trapdoor. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Yo ass shitty to-

There was a funky-ass brand-new Yale padlock danglin from tha trapdoor. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Da lock Jack Torrizzle had clipped round tha hasp afta layin his cold-ass traps, just up in case his fuckin lil hustla should take tha notion tha fuck into his head ta go explorin up there someday.

Locked. Terror swept his muthafuckin ass.

Behind his ass dat shiznit was coming, blunderin n' staggerin past tha Presidential Suite, tha mallet whistlin viciously all up in tha air.

Danny backed up against tha last closed door n' waited fo' dat shit.

Chapta 55. Dat Which was Forgotten
Wendy came ta a lil at a time, tha graynizz drainin away, pain replacin it: her back, her leg, her side... her dope ass didn't be thinkin dat biiiiatch would be able ta move. Even her fingers hurt, n' at first her dope ass didn't know why.

(Da razor blade, that's why.)

Her blond hair, now dank n' matted, hung up in her eyes. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch brushed it away n' her ribs jabbed inside, makin her groan. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Now her big-ass booty saw a gangbangin' field of blue n' white mattress, spotted wit blood. I be fly as a gangbangin' falcon, soarin all up in tha sky dawwwwg! Her blood, or maybe Jack's. Either way dat shiznit was still fresh. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch hadn't been up long fo' realz. And dat was blingin cuz-

(?Why?)

Because-

Dat shiznit was tha insectile, buzzin sound of tha motor dat she remembered first. For a moment she fixed stupidly on tha memory, n' then up in a single vertiginous n' nauseatin swoop, her mind seemed ta pan back, showin her every last muthafuckin thang at once.

Hallorann. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Well shiiiit, it must done been Hallorann. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Why else would Jack have left so suddenly, without finishin dat shit..., without finishin her?

Because da thug was no longer at leisure yo. Dude had ta find Danny quickly and... n' do it before Hallorann could put a stop ta dat shit.

Or had it happened already?

Bitch could hear tha whine of tha elevator risin up tha shaft.

(No Dogg please no tha blood tha blood's still fresh don't let it have happened already)

Somehow dat biiiiatch was able ta find her feet n' stagger all up in tha bedroom n' across tha ruinz of tha livin room ta tha shattered front door. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch pushed it open n' juiced it up tha fuck into tha hall.

"Danny!" dat thugged-out biiiatch cried, wincin at tha wild-ass bullshit up in her chest. "Mista Muthafuckin yo. Hallorann! Is anybody there, biatch? Anybody?"

Da elevator had been hustlin again n' again n' again n' now it came ta a stop. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch heard tha metallic crash of tha gate bein thrown back n' then thought dat freaky freaky biatch heard a bustin lyrics voice. Well shiiiit, it might done been her imagination. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da wind was too bangin ta straight-up be able ta tell.

Leanin against tha wall, she made her way up ta tha corner of tha short hallway. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch was bout ta turn tha corner when tha scream froze her, floatin down tha stairwell n' tha elevator shaft:

"Danny dawwwwg! Come here, you pup! Come here aced take it like a man!"

Jack. On tha second or third floor. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Lookin fo' Danny.

Bitch gots round tha corner, stumbled, almost fell yo. Her breath caught up in her throat. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Something

(someone?)

huddled against tha wall on some quarta of tha way down from tha stairwell. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch fuckin started ta hurry faster, wincin every last muthafuckin time her weight came down on her hurt leg. Dat shiznit was a thugged-out dude, her big-ass booty saw, n' as her dope ass drew closer, she understood tha meanin of dat buzzin motor.

Dat shiznit was Mista Muthafuckin yo. Hallorann. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude had come afta all.

Bitch eased ta her knees beside him, offerin up a incoherent prayer dat da thug was not dead as fuckin fried chicken. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. His nozzle was bleeding, n' a shitty gout of blood had spilled outta his crazy-ass grill. Da side of his wild lil' grill was a puffed purple bruise. But da thug was breathing, give props ta Dogg fo' dis shit. Dat shiznit was comin up in long, harsh draws dat shook his whole frame.

Lookin at his ass mo' closely, Wendy's eyes widened. One arm of tha parka da thug was bustin was blackened n' singed. One side of it had been ripped open. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. There was blood up in his afro n' a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shallow but skanky scratch down tha back of his neck.

(My fuckin God, what's happened ta him?)

"Danny!" tha hoarse, petulant voice roared from above dem wild-ass muthafuckas. "Git up here, goddammit!"

There was no time ta wonder bout it now, nahmeean, biatch? Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch fuckin started ta shake him, her grill twistin all up in tha flare of agony up in her ribs yo. Her side felt bangin' n' massive n' swollen.

(What if they're pokin mah lung whenever I move?)

There was no help fo' that, either n' shit. If Jack found Danny, da thug would bust a cap up in him, beat his ass ta dirtnap wit dat mallet as dat schmoooove muthafucka had tried ta do ta her muthafuckin ass.

So her big-ass booty shook Hallorann, n' then fuckin started ta slap tha unbruised side of his wild lil' grill lightly.

"Wake up," her big-ass booty holla'd. "Mista Muthafuckin yo. Hallorann, you've gots ta wake up. Please... please..."

From overhead, tha restless boomin soundz of tha mallet as Jack Torrizzle looked fo' his son.

Danny stood wit his back against tha door, lookin all up in tha right angle where tha hallways joined. Da steady, irregular boomin sound of tha mallet against tha walls grew louder n' shit. Da thang dat was afta his ass screamed n' howled n' cursed. Dream n' realitizzle had joined together without a seam.

It came round tha corner.

In a way, what tha fuck Danny felt was relief. Dat shiznit was not his wild lil' daddy n' shit. Da mask of grill n' body had been ripped n' shredded n' made tha fuck into a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shitty-ass joke. Dat shiznit was not his fuckin lil' daddy, not dis Saturdizzle Night Shock Show horror wit its rollin eyes n' hunched n' hulkin shouldaz n' blood-drenched shirt. Dat shiznit was not his fuckin lil' daddy.

"Now, by God," it breathed. Well shiiiit, it wiped its lips wit a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass bobbin hand. "Now you'll smoke up whoz ass is tha boss round here, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. You'll see. It's not you they want. It's mah dirty ass. Me. Me!"

It slashed up wit tha scarred hammer, its double head now shapeless n' splintered wit countless impacts, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. Well shiiiit, it struck tha wall, cuttin a cold-ass lil circle up in tha silk paper n' shit. Plasta dust puffed out. Well shiiiit, it fuckin started ta grin.

"Let's peep you pull any of yo' fancy tricks now," it muttered. "I wasn't born yesterday, you know. Didn't just fall off tha hay truck, by Dogg. I'm goin ta do mah fatherly duty by you, boy."

Danny holla'd: "You're not mah daddy."

It stopped. For a moment it straight-up looked uncertain, as if not shizzle whoz ass or what tha fuck it was. Then it fuckin started ta strutt again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da hammer whistled out, struck a thugged-out door panel n' juiced it up boom hollowly.

"You're a liar," it holla'd. "Dum diddy-dum, here I come biaaatch! Who tha fuck else would I be, biatch? I have tha two birthmarks, I have tha cupped navel, even tha pecker, mah pimp fo' realz. Ask yo' mother."

"You're a mask," Danny holla'd. "Just a gangbangin' false face. Da only reason tha hotel need ta use you is dat yo ass isn't as dead as tha others. But when it's done wit you, you won't be anythang at all. Yo ass don't scare mah dirty ass."

"I'll scare you, nahmean biiiatch?" it howled. Da mallet whistled fiercely down, smashin tha fuck into tha rug between Danny's Nikes. Danny didn't flinch. "Yo ass lied bout me biaaatch! Yo ass connived wit her playa! Yo ass plotted against me biaaatch! And you cheated hommie! Yo ass copied dat final exam!" Da eyes glared up at his ass from beneath tha furred brows. There was a expression of lunatic cunnin up in dem wild-ass muthafuckas. "I'll find it, like a muthafucka. It's down up in tha basement somewhere, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. I'll find dat shit. They promised mah crazy ass I could look all I want." It raised tha mallet again.

"Yes, they promise," Danny holla'd, "but they lie." Da mallet hesitated all up in tha top of its swing.

Hallorann had begun ta come around yo, but Wendy had stopped pattin his cheeks fo' realz. A moment ago tha lyrics Yo ass cheated hommie! Yo ass copied dat final exam! had floated down all up in tha elevator shaft, dim, barely audible over tha wind. From somewhere deep up in tha westside wing. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch was nearly convinced they was on tha third floor n' dat Jack-whatever had taken possession of Jack-had found Danny. There was not a god damn thang she or Hallorann could do now, nahmeean?

"Oh doc," she murmured. Tears blurred her eyes.

"Son of a funky-ass biiiatch broke mah jaw," Hallorann muttered thickly, "and mah head..." Dude hit dat shiznit ta sit up yo. His right eye was purplin rapidly n' swellin shut. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Still, da perved-out muthafucka saw Wendy.

"Missus Torrance-"

"Shhhh," her big-ass booty holla'd.

"Where is tha boy, Missus Torrance?"

"On tha third floor," her big-ass booty holla'd. "With his wild lil' father."

"They lie," Danny holla'd again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Somethang had gone all up in his crazy-ass mind, flashin like a meteor, too quick, too bright ta catch n' hold. Only tha tail of tha thought remained.

(it's down up in tha basement somewhere)

(you will remember what tha fuck yo' daddy forgot)

"You... you shouldn't drop a rhyme dat way ta yo' father," it holla'd hoarsely. Da mallet trembled, came down. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. "You'll only make thangs worse fo' yo ass. Your... yo' punishment. Worse." It staggered fadedenly n' stared at his ass wit maudlin selfpitizzle dat fuckin started ta turn ta hate. Da mallet fuckin started ta rise again.

"You're not mah daddy," Danny holla'd at it again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. "And if there's a lil bit of mah daddy left inside you, he knows they lie here, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. Everythang be a lie n' a cold-ass lil cheat. Like tha loaded dice mah daddy gots fo' mah Chrizzle stockin last Chrizzle, like tha presents they put up in tha store windows n' mah daddy say there's not a god damn thang up in them, no presents, they're just empty boxes. Just fo' show, mah daddy say. You're it, not mah daddy. You're tha hotel fo' realz. And when you git what tha fuck you want, you won't give mah daddy anythang cuz you're selfish fo' realz. And mah daddy knows dis shit. Yo ass had ta make his ass drank tha Shiznitty Stuff. That's tha only way you could git him, you lyin false face."

"Liar playa! Liar!" Da lyrics came up in a thin shriek. Da mallet wavered wildly up in tha air.

"Go on n' hit mah dirty ass. But you'll never git what tha fuck you want from mah dirty ass."

Da grill up in front of his ass chizzled. Dat shiznit was hard ta say how; there was no meltin or mergin of tha features. Da body trembled slightly, n' then tha bloody handz opened like fucked up claws. Da mallet fell tha fuck from dem n' thumped ta tha rug. That was all. But suddenly his fuckin lil' daddy was there, lookin at his ass up in mortal agony, n' a sorrow so pimped out dat Danny's ass flamed within his chest. Da grill drew down up in a quiverin bow.

"Doc," Jack Torrizzle holla'd. "Run away. Quick fo' realz. And remember how tha fuck much I gots a straight-up boner fo' you, biatch."

"No," Danny holla'd.

"Oh Danny, fo' God's sake-"

"No," Danny holla'd. Dude took one of his wild lil' father's bloody handz n' busted dat shit. "It's almost over."

Hallorann gots ta his wild lil' feet by proppin his back against tha wall n' pushin his dirty ass up yo. Dude n' Wendy stared at each other like nightmare survivors from a funky-ass bombed hospitizzle.

"We gots ta git up there," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. "We gotta help his muthafuckin ass."

Her hustled eyes stared tha fuck into his wild lil' from her chalk-pale face., "It's too late," Wendy holla'd. "Now his schmoooove ass can only help his dirty ass."

A minute passed, then two. Three fo' realz. And they heard it above them, screaming, not up in anger or triumph now yo, but up in mortal terror.

"Dear God," Hallorann whispered. "What's happening?"

"I don't know," her big-ass booty holla'd.

"Has it capped him?"

"I don't know."

Da elevator clashed tha fuck into game n' fuckin started ta descend wit tha screaming, ravin thang penned up inside.

Danny stood without moving. There was no place his schmoooove ass could run where tha Overlook was not yo. Dude recognized it suddenly, fully, painlessly. For tha last time up in his wild lil' freakadelic game dat schmoooove muthafucka had a adult thought, a adult feeling, tha essence of his wild lil' fuckin experience up in dis shitty place-a sorrowful distillation:

(Mommy n' Daddy can't help me n' I'm ridin' solo.)

"Go away," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd ta tha bloody stranger up in front of his muthafuckin ass. "Go on. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Git outta here."

It bent over, exposin tha knife handle up in its back. Its handz closed round tha mallet again yo, but instead of aimin at Danny, it reversed tha handle, aimin tha hard side of tha roque mallet at its own face.

Understandin rushed all up in Danny.

Then tha mallet fuckin started ta rise n' descend, beatin tha livin shiznit outta tha last of Jack Torrance's image. Da thang up in tha hall danced a eerie, shufflin polka, tha beat counterpointed by tha hideous sound of tha mallet head strikin again n' again n' again n' again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Blood splattered across tha wallpaper n' shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Shardz of bone leaped tha fuck into tha air like fucked up piano keys. Dat shiznit was impossible ta say just how tha fuck long it went on. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. But when it turned its attention back ta Danny, his wild lil' daddy was gone forever n' shit. What remained of tha grill became a strange, shiftin composite, nuff faces mixed imperfectly tha fuck into one. Danny saw tha biatch up in 217; tha dogman; tha horny boythang dat had been up in tha concrete ring.

"Masks off, then," it whispered. "No mo' interruptions."

Da mallet rose fo' tha final time fo' realz. A tickin sound filled Danny's ears.

"Anythang else ta say?" it inquired. "Is you shizzle you wouldn't like ta run, biatch? A game of tag, like, biatch? All our crazy asses have is time, you know fo' realz. An eternitizzle of time. Or shall we end it, biatch? Might as well fo' realz. Afta all, we're missin tha party."

It grinned wit broken-toothed greed.

And it came ta his muthafuckin ass. What his wild lil' daddy had forgotten.

Sudden triumph filled his wild lil' face; tha thang saw it n' hesitated, puzzled.

"Da boiler!" Danny screamed. "It hasn't been dumped since dis morning! It's goin up! It's goin ta explode!"

An expression of grotesque terror n' dawnin realization swept across tha fucked up featurez of tha thang up in front of his muthafuckin ass. Da mallet dropped from its fisted handz n' bounced harmlessly on tha black n' blue rug.

"Da boiler!" it cried. "Oh no! That can't be allowed hommie! Certainly not son! No! Yo ass goddamned lil pup! Certainly not son! Oh, oh, oh-"

"It is!" Danny cried back at it fiercely yo. Dude fuckin started ta shufe n' shake his wild lil' fists all up in tha fucked up thang before his muthafuckin ass. "Any minute now! I know dat shiznit son! Da boiler, Daddy forgot tha boila playa! And you forgot it, tool"

"Fuck dat shit, oh no, it mustn't, it can't, you dirty lil boy, I'll make you take yo' medicine, I'll make you take every last muthafuckin drop, oh no, oh no-"

It suddenly turned tail n' fuckin started ta shamble away. For a moment its shadow bobbed on tha wall, waxin n' waning. Well shiiiit, it trailed cries behind itself like wornout jam streamers.

Moments lata tha elevator crashed tha fuck into game.

Suddenly tha shinin was on him

(mommy mr. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. hallorann dick ta mah playaz together kickin it they're kickin it gots ta git up it's goin ta blow goin ta blow sky-high)

like a gangbangin' fierce n' glarin sunrise n' he ran. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. One foot kicked tha bloody, misshapen roque mallet aside yo. Dude didn't notice.

Crying, he ran fo' tha stairs.

They shitty ta git out.

Chapta 56. Da Explosion
Hallorann could never be shizzle of tha progression of thangs afta dis shiznit yo. Dude remembered dat tha elevator had gone down n' past dem without stopping, n' suttin' had been inside. But he made no attempt ta try ta peep up in all up in tha lil' small-ass diamond-shaped window, cuz what tha fuck was up in there did not sound human. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. A moment lata there was hustlin footsteps on tha stairs. Wendy Torrizzle at first shrank back against his ass n' then fuckin started ta stumble down tha main corridor ta tha stairs as fast as dat thugged-out biiiatch could.

"Danny dawwwwg! Danny dawwwwg! Oh, give props ta Dogg hommie! Thank God!"

Bitch swept his ass tha fuck into a hug, groanin wit joy as well as her pain.

(Danny.)

Danny looked at his ass from his crazy-ass mother's arms, n' Hallorann saw how tha fuck tha pimp had chizzled. His grill was pale n' pinched, his wild lil' fuckin eyes dark n' fathomless yo. Dude looked as if dat schmoooove muthafucka had lost weight. Lookin all up in tha two of dem together, Hallorann thought dat shiznit was tha mutha whoz ass looked younger, up in spite of tha shitty whoopin dat freaky freaky biatch had taken.

(Dick-we gotta go-run-the place-it's goin to)

Picture of tha Overlook, flames leapin outta its roof. Bricks drizzlin down on tha snow. Clang of firebells... not dat any fire truck would be able ta git up here much before tha end of March. Most of all what tha fuck came all up in in Danny's thought was a sense of urgent immediacy, a gangbangin' feelin dat dat shiznit was goin ta happen at any time.

"All right," Hallorann holla'd. Dude fuckin started ta move toward tha two of dem n' at first dat shiznit was like swimmin all up in deep gin n juice n' shiznit yo. His sense of balizzle was screwed, n' tha eye on tha right side of his wild lil' grill didn't wanna focus yo. His jaw was bustin giant throbbin burstz of pain up ta his cold-ass temple n' down his neck, n' his cheek felt as big-ass as a cold-ass lil cabbage. But tha boy's urgency had gotten his ass going, n' it gots a lil easier.

"All right?" Wendy asked. Biatch looked from Hallorann ta her lil hustla n' back ta Hallorann. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. "What do you mean, all right?"

"We gotta go," Hallorann holla'd.

"I'm not dressed... mah clothes..."

Danny darted outta her arms then n' raced down tha corridor. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch looked afta him, n' as he vanished round tha corner, back at Hallorann. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. "What if his schmoooove ass comes back?"

"Yo crazy-ass homeboy?"

"He's not Jack," she muttered. "Jack's dead as fuckin fried chicken. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. This place capped hire. This damned place." Biatch struck all up in tha wall wit her fist n' cried up at tha wild-ass bullshit up in her cut fingers. "It's tha boiler, isn't it?"

"Yes, ma'am. Danny say it's goin ta explode."

"Good." Da word was uttered wit dead finality. "I don't know if I can git down dem stairs again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. My fuckin ribs... his thugged-out lil' punk-ass broke mah ribs fo' realz. And suttin' up in mah back. Well shiiiit, it hurts."

"You'll make it," Hallorann holla'd. "We'll all make dat shit." But suddenly he remembered tha hedge muthafuckas, n' wondered what tha fuck they would do if they was guardin tha way out...

Then Danny was comin back yo. Dude had Wendy's boots n' coat n' gloves, also his own coat n' gloves.

"Danny," her big-ass booty holla'd. "Yo crazy-ass boots."

"It's too late," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. His eyes stared at dem wit a thugged-out desperate kind of madnizz yo. Dude looked at Dick n' suddenly Hallorann's mind was fixed wit a image of a cold-ass lil clock under a glass dome, tha clock up in tha ballroom dat had been donated by a Swiss diplomat up in 1949. Da handz of tha clock was standin at a minute ta midnight.

"Oh mah God," Hallorann holla'd. "Oh mah dear Dogg."

Dude clapped a arm round Wendy n' picked her up yo. Dude clapped his other arm round Danny yo. Dude ran fo' tha stairs.

Wendy shrieked up in pain as da perved-out muthafucka squeezed tha shitty ribs, as suttin' up in her back ground together yo, but Hallorann did not slow yo. Dude plunged down tha stairs wit dem up in his thugged-out arms. Boy it's gettin hot, yes indeed it is. One eye wide n' desperate, tha other puffed shut ta a slit yo. Dude looked like a one-eyed pirate abductin hostages ta be ransomed later.

Suddenly tha shine was on him, n' he understood what tha fuck Danny had meant when da perved-out muthafucka holla'd dat shiznit was too late yo. Dude could feel tha explosion gettin locked n loaded ta rumble up from tha basement n' tear tha guts outta dis horrid place.

Dude ran faster, boltin headlong across tha lobby toward tha double doors.

It hurried across tha basement n' tha fuck into tha feeble yellow glow of tha furnace room's only light. Dat shiznit was slobberin wit fear. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Well shiiiit, it had been so close, so close ta havin tha pimp n' tha boy's remarkable juice n' shit. Well shiiiit, it could not lose now, nahmeean, biatch? Well shiiiit, it must not happen. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Well shiiiit, it would dump tha boila n' then chastise tha pimp harshly.

"Mustn't happen!" it cried. "Oh shiiiiiiiit, mustn't happen!"

It stumbled across tha floor ta tha boiler, which glowed a thugged-out dull red halfway up its long tubular body. Dat shiznit was huffin n' rattlin n' hissin off plumez of steam up in a hundred directions, like a monsta calliope. Da heat needle stood all up in tha far end of tha dial.

"Fuck dat shit, it won't be allowed!" tha manager/caretaker cried.

It laid its Jack Torrizzle handz on tha valve, unmindful of tha burnin smell which arose or tha searin of tha flesh as tha red-hot wheel sank in, as if tha fuck into a mudrut.

Da wheel gave, n' wit a triumphant scream, tha thang spun it wide open. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. A giant roar of escapin steam bellowed outta tha boiler, a thugged-out dozen dragons hissin up in concert. But before tha steam obscured tha heat needle entirely, tha needle had visibly begun ta swin back.

"I WIN!" it cried. Well shiiiit, it capered obscenely up in tha hot, risin mist, wavin its flamin handz over its head. "NOT TOO LATE! I WIN! NOT TOO LATE! NOT TOO LATE! NOT-"

Lyrics turned tha fuck into a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shriek of triumph, n' tha shriek was swallowed up in a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shatterin roar as tha Overlook's boila blew up like a muthafucka.

Hallorann burst up all up in tha double doors n' carried tha two of dem all up in tha trench up in tha big-ass snowdrift on tha porch yo. Dude saw tha hedge muthafuckas clearly, mo' clearly than before, n' even as he realized his crazy-ass most shitty fears was true, dat they was between tha porch n' tha snowmobile, tha hotel blew up like a muthafucka. Well shiiiit, it seemed ta his ass dat it happened all at once, although lata he knew dat couldn't done been tha way it happened.

There was a gangbangin' flat explosion, a sound dat seemed ta exist on one low allpervasive note

(WHUMMMMMMMMM-)

and then there was a funky-ass blast of warm air at they backs dat seemed ta push gently at dem wild-ass muthafuckas. They was thrown from tha porch on its breath, tha three of them, n' a cold-ass lil trippin thought

(this is what tha fuck superman must feel like)

slipped all up in Hallorann's mind as they flew all up in tha air yo. Dude lost his hold on dem n' then da perved-out muthafucka struck tha snow up in a soft billow. Dat shiznit was down his hoodie n' up his nozzle n' da thug was dimly aware dat it felt phat on his hurt cheek.

Then da perved-out muthafucka struggled ta tha top of it, fo' dat moment not thankin bout tha hedge muthafuckas, or Wendy Torrance, or even tha pimp yo. Dude rolled over on his back so his schmoooove ass could peep it take a thugged-out dirt nap.

Da Overlook's windows shattered. In tha ballroom, tha dome over tha mantelpiece clock cracked, split up in two pieces, n' fell tha fuck ta tha floor. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Da clock stopped ticking: cogs n' gears n' balizzle wheel all became motionless. There was a whispered, sighin noise, n' a pimped out billow of dust. In 217 tha bathtub suddenly split up in two, lettin up a lil' small-ass flood of greenish, noxious-smellin gin n juice n' shit. In tha Presidential Suite tha wallpaper suddenly burst tha fuck into flames. Da batwin doorz of tha Colorado Lounge suddenly snapped they hinges n' fell tha fuck ta tha dinin room floor. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Beyond tha basement arch, tha pimped out pilez n' stackz of oldschool papers caught fire n' went up wit a funky-ass blowtorch hiss. Boilin wata rolled over tha flames but did not quench dem wild-ass muthafuckas. Like burnin autumn leaves below a wasps' nest, they whirled n' blackened. Da furnace blew up like a muthafucka, shatterin tha basement's roofbeams, bustin dem crashin down like tha bonez of a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dinosaur. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Da gasjet which had fed tha furnace, unstoppered now, rose up in a funky-ass bellowin pylon of flame all up in tha riven floor of tha lobby. Da carpetin on tha stair risers caught, racin up ta tha first-floor level as if ta tell dreadful phat shizzle fo' realz. A fusillade of explosions ripped tha place. Da chandelier up in tha dinin room, a two-hundred-pound crystal bomb, fell tha fuck wit a splinterin crash, knockin tablez every last muthafuckin which way. Flame belched outta tha Overlook's five chimneys all up in tha breakin clouds.

(No! Mustn't son! Mustn't son! MUSTN'T!)

It shrieked; it shrieked but now dat shiznit was voiceless n' dat shiznit was only beatboxin panic n' doom n' damnation up in its own ear, dissolving, losin thought n' will, tha webbin fallin apart, searching, not finding, goin out, goin up to, fleeing, goin up ta emptiness, notness, crumbling.

Da jam was over.

Chapta 57. Exit
Da roar shook tha whole facade of tha hotel. Glass belched up onto tha snow n' twinkled there like jagged diamonds. Da hedge dog, which had been approachin Danny n' his crazy-ass mother, recoiled away from it, its chronic n' shadowmarbled ears flattening, its tail comin down between its hairy-ass legs as its haunches flattened abjectly. In his head, Hallorann heard it whine fearfully, n' mixed wit dat sound was tha fearful, trippin yowlin of tha big-ass cats yo. Dude struggled ta his wild lil' feet ta git all up in tha other two n' help them, n' as da ruffneck did so da perved-out muthafucka saw suttin' mo' nightmarish than all tha rest: tha hedge rabbit, still coated wit snow, was batterin itself crazily all up in tha chainlink fence all up in tha far end of tha playground, n' tha steel mesh was jinglin wit a kind of nightmare beatz, like a spectral zither n' shit. Even from here his schmoooove ass could hear tha soundz of tha close-set twigs n' branches which made up its body crackin n' crunchin like breakin bones.

"Dick! Dick!" Danny cried up yo. Dude was tryin ta support his crazy-ass mother, help her over ta tha snowmobile. Da threadz dat schmoooove muthafucka had carried up fo' tha two of dem was scattered between where they had fallen n' where they now stood. I be fly as a gangbangin' falcon, soarin all up in tha sky dawwwwg! Hallorann was suddenly aware dat tha biatch was up in her nightclothes, Danny jacketless, n' dat shiznit was no mo' than ten above zero.

(my gad she's up in her bare feet)

Dude struggled back all up in tha snow, pickin up her coat, her boots, Danny's coat, odd gloves. Then he ran back ta them, plungin hip-deep up in tha snow from time ta time, havin ta flounder his way out.

Wendy was horribly pale, tha side of her neck coated wit blood, blood dat was now freezing.

"I can't," she muttered. Biatch was no mo' than semiconscious. "Fuck dat shit, I... can't. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Sorry."

Danny looked up at Hallorann pleadingly.

"Gonna be aiiight," Hallorann holla'd, n' gripped her again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. "Come on."

Da three of dem juiced it up ta where tha snowmobile had slewed round n' stalled up yo. Hallorann sat tha biatch down on tha passenger seat n' put her coat on. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude lifted her feet up-they was straight-up cold but not frozen yet-and rubbed dem briskly wit Danny's jacket before puttin on her boots, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. Wendy's grill was alabasta pale, her eyes halflidded n' dazed yo, but dat freaky freaky biatch had begun ta shiver n' shiznit yo. Hallorann thought dat was a phat sign.

Behind them, a seriez of three explosions rocked tha hotel. Orange flashes lit tha snow.

Danny put his crazy-ass grill close ta Hallorann's ear n' screamed something.

"What?"

"I holla'd do you need that?"

Da pimp was pointin all up in tha red gascan dat leaned at a angle up in tha snow.

"I guess our phat asses do."

Dude picked it up n' sloshed dat shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Still gas up in there, his schmoooove ass couldn't tell how tha fuck much yo. Dude attached tha can ta tha back of tha snowmobile, fumblin tha thang nuff muthafuckin times before gettin it right cuz his wild lil' fingers was goin numb. For tha last time his thugged-out lil' punk-ass became aware dat he'd lost Howard Cottrell's mittens.

(i git outta dis i gonna have mah sista knit you a thugged-out dozen pair, howie)

"Git on!" Hallorann shouted all up in tha boy.

Danny shrank back. "We'll freeze!"

"We gotta go round ta tha shiznit shed hommie! There's shiznit up in there... blankets... shiznit like dis shit. Git on behind yo' mother!"

Danny gots on, n' Hallorann twisted his head so his schmoooove ass could shout tha fuck into Wendy's face.

"Missus Torrizzle biaaatch! Hold onto me biaaatch! Yo ass understand, biatch? Hold on!"

Bitch put her arms round his ass n' rested her cheek against his back yo. Hallorann started tha snowmobile n' turned tha throttle delicately so they would start up without a jerk. Da biatch had tha weakest sort of grip on him, n' if her big-ass booty shifted backward, her weight would tumble both her n' tha pimp off.

They fuckin started ta move yo. Dude brought tha snowmobile round up in a cold-ass lil circle n' then they was travelin westside parallel ta tha hotel yo. Hallorann cut up in mo' ta circle round behind it ta tha shiznit shed.

They had a momentarily clear view tha fuck into tha Overlook's lobby. Da gasflame comin up all up in tha shattered floor was like a giant birthdizzle candle, fierce yellow at its ass n' blue round its flickerin edges. In dat moment it seemed only ta be lighting, not destroying. They could peep tha registration desk wit its silver bell, tha credit card decals, tha old-fashioned, scrolled chedda register, tha lil' small-ass figured throw rugs, tha highbacked chairs, horsehair hassocks. Danny could peep tha lil' small-ass sofa by tha fireplace where tha three nuns had sat on tha dizzle they had come up-closin day. It make me wanna hollar playa! But dis was tha real closin day.

Then tha drift on tha porch blotted tha view up fo' realz. A moment lata they was skirtin tha westside side of tha hotel. Dat shiznit was still light enough ta peep without tha snowmobile's headlight. Both upper stories was flamin now, n' pennantz of flame blasted up tha windows. Da gleamin white paint had begun ta blacken n' peel. Da shuttas which had covered tha Presidential Suite's picture windowshuttas Jack had carefully fastened as per instructions up in mid-October-now hung up in flamin brands, exposin tha wide n' shattered darknizz behind them, like a toothless grill yawin up in a gangbangin' final, silent dirtnaprattle.

Wendy had pressed her grill against Hallorann's back ta cut up tha wind, n' Danny had likewise pressed his wild lil' grill against his crazy-ass mother's back, n' so dat shiznit was only Hallorann whoz ass saw tha final thang, n' he never was rappin of dat shit. From tha window of tha Presidential Suite tha pimpin' muthafucka thought da perved-out muthafucka saw a big-ass dark shape issue, blottin up tha snowfield behind dat shit. For a moment it assumed tha shape of a huge, obscene manta, n' then tha wind seemed ta catch it, ta tear it n' shred it like oldschool dark paper n' shit. Well shiiiit, it fragmented, was caught up in a whirlin eddy of smoke, n' a moment lata dat shiznit was gone as if it had never been. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. But up in dem few secondz as it whirled blackly, ridin' dirty like wack motez of light, he remembered suttin' from his childhood... fifty muthafuckin years ago, or snore yo. Dude n' his brutha had come upon a big-ass nest of ground wasps just uptown of they farm. Well shiiiit, it had been tucked tha fuck into a hollow between tha earth n' a oldschool lightning-blasted tree yo. His brutha had had a funky-ass big-ass oldschool nizzlechaser up in tha crew of his hat, saved all tha way from tha Fourth of July yo. Dude had lighted it n' tossed it all up in tha nest. Well shiiiit, it had blew up like a muthafucka wit a funky-ass bangin bang, n' a mad salty, risin hum-almost a low shriek-had risen from tha blasted nest. They had run away as if demons had been at they beels. In a way, Hallorann supposed dat demons had been. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. And lookin back over his shoulder, as da thug was now, dat schmoooove muthafucka had on dat dizzle peeped a big-ass dark cloud of hornets risin up in tha bangin' air, swirlin together, breakin apart, lookin fo' whatever enemy had done dis ta they home so dat they-the single crew intelligence-could stin it ta dirtnap.

Then tha thang up in tha sky was gone n' it might only done been smoke or a pimped out flappin swatch of wallpaper afta all, n' there was only tha Overlook, a gangbangin' flamin pyre up in tha roarin throat of tha night.

There was a key ta tha shiznit shed's padlock on his key rang yo, but Hallorann saw there would be no need ta use dat shit.

Da door was ajar, tha padlock hangin open on its hasp.

"I can't go up in there," Danny whispered.

"That's all gravy. Yo ass stay wit yo' momma. There used ta be a pile of oldschool horseblankets, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. Probably all moth-eaten by now yo, but betta than freezin ta dirtnap. Missus Torrance, you still wit us?"

"I don't know," tha wan voice answered. "I be thinkin so."

"Good. I be fly as a gangbangin' falcon, soarin all up in tha sky dawwwwg! I'll be just a second."

"Come back as quick as you can," Danny whispered. "Please."

Hallorann nodded. Dude had trained tha headlamp on tha door n' now he floundered all up in tha snow, castin a long-ass shadow up in front of his dirty ass yo. Dude pushed tha shiznit shed door open n' stepped in. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da horseblankets was still up in tha corner, by tha rogue set yo. Dude picked up four of themthey smelled musty n' oldschool n' tha moths certainly had been havin a gangbangin' free lunch-and then he paused.

One of tha rogue mallets was gone.

(Was dat what tha fuck dat schmoooove muthafucka hit me with?)

Well, it didn't matta what tha fuck he'd been hit with, done did it, biatch? Still, his wild lil' fingers went ta tha side of his wild lil' grill n' fuckin started ta explore tha big-ass lump there, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Six hundred dollars' worth of dental work undone at a single blow fo' realz. And afta all

(maybe da ruffneck didn't hit me wit one of them. Maybe one gots lost. Or jacked. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Or took fo' a souvenir fo' realz. Afta all)

it didn't straight-up matter n' shit. No one was goin ta be playin rogue here next summer n' shit. Or any summer up in tha foreseeable future.

Fuck dat shit, it didn't straight-up matter, except dat lookin all up in tha racked mallets wit tha single missin member had a kind of fascination. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude found his dirty ass thankin of tha hard wooden whack! of tha mallet head strikin tha round wooden bizzle. Kick dat shit! A sick summery sound. Watchin it skitta across the

(bone. blood.)

gravel. Well shiiiit, it conjured up images of

(bone. blood.)

iced tea, porch swings, ladies up in white straw hats, tha hum of mosquitoes, and

(bad lil thugs whoz ass don't play by tha rules.)

all dat stuff. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Sure. Sick game. Out of steez now yo, but... sick.

"Dick?" Da voice was thin, frantic, and, tha pimpin' muthafucka thought, rather unpleasant. "Is you all right, Dick, biatch? Come up now, nahmeean, biatch? Please!"

("Come on up now de massa callin youall.")

His hand closed tightly round one of tha mallet handles, likin its feel.

(pare tha rod, spoil tha child.)

His eyes went blank up in tha flickering, fire-shot darkness. Really, it would be bustin dem both a gangbangin' favor. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch was messed up... up in pain... n' most of dat shit

(all of it)

was dat damn boy's fault. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Sheezy yo. Dude had left his own daddy up in there ta burn, so check it before ya wreck it. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. When you thought of it, dat shiznit was damn close ta cappin' n' shit. Patricizzle was what tha fuck they called dat shit. Pretty goddam low:

"Mista Muthafuckin yo. Hallorann?" Her voice was low, weak, querulous yo. Dude didn't much like tha sound of dat shit.

"Dick!" Da pimp was sobbin now, up in terror.

Hallorann drew tha mallet from tha rack n' turned toward tha flood of white light from tha snowmobile headlamp yo. His feet scratched unevenly over tha boardz of tha shiznit shed, like tha feet of a cold-ass lil clockwork toy dat has been wound up n' set up in motion.

Suddenly da perved-out muthafucka stopped, looked wonderingly all up in tha mallet up in his hands, n' axed his dirty ass wit risin horror what tha fuck dat shiznit was dat schmoooove muthafucka had been thankin of bustin. Murder, biatch? Had his thugged-out lil' punk-ass been thankin of murder?

For a moment his wild lil' fuckin entire mind seemed filled wit a mad salty, weakly hectorin voice:

(Do dat shiznit son! Do it, you weak-kneed no-balls nizzle playa! Bust a cap up in them! KILL THEM BOTH!)

Then he flung tha mallet behind his ass wit a whispered, terrified cry like a muthafucka. Well shiiiit, it clattered tha fuck into tha corner where tha horseblankets had been, one of tha two headz pointed toward his ass up in a unspeakable invitation.

Dude fled.

Danny was chillin on tha snowmobile seat n' Wendy was holdin his ass weakly yo. His grill was shiny wit tears, n' da thug was bobbin as if wit ague. Between his clickin teeth da perved-out muthafucka holla'd: "Where was yo slick ass, biatch? Us thugs was scared!"

"It's a phat place ta be scared of," Hallorann holla'd slowly. "Even if dat place burns flat ta tha foundation, you'll never git me within a hundred milez of here again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Here, Missus Torrance, wrap these round you, biatch. I'll help. Yo ass too, Danny. Git yo ass lookin like a Arab."

Dude swirled two of tha blankets round Wendy, fashionin one of dem tha fuck into a hood ta cover her head, n' helped Danny tie his so they wouldn't fall off.

"Now hold on fo' dear game," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. "We gots a long-ass way ta go yo, but da most thugged-out shitty is behind our asses now, nahmeean?"

Dude circled tha shiznit shed n' then pointed tha snowmobile back along they trail. Da Overlook was a torch now, flamin all up in tha sky. Great holez had been smoked tha fuck into its sides, n' there was a red hell inside, waxin n' waning. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Snowmelt ran down tha charred guttas up in steamin waterfalls.

They purred down tha front lawns they way well lit. Da snowdunes glowed scarlet.

"Look!" Danny shouted as Hallorann slowed fo' tha front gate yo. Dude was pointin toward tha playground.

Da hedge creatures was all up in they original gangsta positions yo, but they was denuded, blackened, seared. Their dead branches was a stark interlacin network up in tha fireglow, they lil' small-ass leaves scattered round they feet like fallen petals.

"They're dead!" Danny screamed up in hysterical triumph.

"Dead hommie! They're dead!"

"Shhh," Wendy holla'd. "All right, honey. It's all right."

"Yo, doc," Hallorann holla'd. "Let's git ta someplace warm. Yo ass ready?"

"Yes," Danny whispered. "I've been locked n loaded fo' so long-"

Hallorann edged all up in tha gap between gate n' post fo' realz. A moment lata they was on tha road, pointed back toward Sidewinder n' shit. Da sound of tha snowmobile's engine dwindled until dat shiznit was lost up in tha ceaseless roar of tha wind. Well shiiiit, it rattled all up in tha denuded branchez of tha hedge muthafuckas wit a low, whoopin, desolate sound. Da fire waxed n' waned. Sometime afta tha sound of tha snowmobile's engine had disappeared, tha Overlooks roof caved in-first tha westside wing, then tha eastside, n' secondz lata tha central roof fo' realz. A big-ass spiralin gout of sparks n' flamin debris rushed up tha fuck into tha howlin winta night.

A bundle of flamin shinglez n' a wad of bangin' flashin was wafted be all up in tha open shiznit shed door by tha wind.

Afta a while tha shed fuckin started ta burn, like a muthafucka.

They was still twenty milez from Sidewinder when Hallorann stopped ta pour tha rest of tha gas tha fuck into tha snowmobile's tank yo. Dude was gettin straight-up worried bout Wendy Torrance, whoz ass seemed ta be driftin away from dem wild-ass muthafuckas. Dat shiznit was still so far ta bounce tha fuck out.

"Dick!" Danny cried. Dude was standin up on tha seat, pointing. "Dick, look! Look there!"

Da snow had stopped n' a silver-dollar moon had peeked up all up in tha rafterin clouds. Far down tha road but comin toward them, comin upward all up in a seriez of S-shaped switchbacks, was a pearly chain of lights, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. Da wind dropped fo' a moment n' Hallorann heard tha faraway buzzin snarl of snowmobile engines.

Hallorann n' Danny n' Wendy reached dem fifteen minutes later n' shit. They had brought extra threadz n' brandy n' Dr. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Edmunds.

And tha long darknizz was over.

Chapta 58. Epilogue/Summer
Afta dat schmoooove muthafucka had finished checkin over tha saladz his understudy had made n' peeked up in on tha home-baked beans they was rockin as appetizers dis week, Hallorann untied his thugged-out apron, hung it on a hook, n' slipped up tha back door yo. Dude had maybe forty-five minutes before dat schmoooove muthafucka had ta crank up fo' dinner up in earnest.

Da name of dis place was tha Red Arrow Lodge, n' dat shiznit was buried up in tha westside Maine mountains, thirty milez from tha hood of Rangely. Dat shiznit was a phat gig, Hallorann thought. Da trade wasn't too heavy, it tipped well, n' so far there hadn't been a single meal busted back. Not shitty at all, thankin bout tha season was nearly half over.

Dude threaded his way between tha outdoor bar n' tha swimmin pool (although why mah playas would wanna use tha pool wit tha lake so handy da thug would never know), crossed a greensward where a jam of four was playin croquet n' laughing, n' crested a mild ridge. Pines took over here, n' tha wind soughed pleasantly up in them, carryin tha aroma of fir n' dope resin.

On tha other side, a fuckin shitload of cabins wit viewz of tha lake was placed discreetly among tha trees. Da last one was tha sickst, n' Hallorann had reserved it fo' a jam of two back up in April when dat schmoooove muthafucka had gotten dis gig.

Da biatch was chillin on tha porch up in a rockin chair, a funky-ass book up in her handz yo. Hallorann was struck again n' again n' again by tha chizzle up in her n' shit. Part of dat shiznit was tha stiff, almost formal way her big-ass booty sat, up in spite of her informal surroundings-that was tha back brace, of course. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. She'd had a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shattered vertebra as well as three fucked up ribs n' some internal fuck-ups. Da back was tha slowest healing, n' dat biiiiatch was still up in tha brace... hence tha formal posture. But tha chizzle was mo' than dis shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch looked older, n' a shitload of tha laughta had gone outta her face. Now, as her big-ass booty sat readin her book, Hallorann saw a grave sort of beauty there dat had been missin on tha dizzle dat schmoooove muthafucka had first kicked it wit her, some nine months ago. Then dat freaky freaky biatch had still been mostly girl. Now dat biiiiatch was a biatch, a human bein whoz ass had been dragged round ta tha dark side of tha moon n' had come back able ta put tha pieces back together n' shit. But dem pieces, Hallorann thought, they never fit just tha same way again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Never up in dis ghetto. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass.

Bitch heard his step n' looked up, closin her book. "Dick! Hi!" Biatch started ta rise, n' a lil grimace of pain crossed her face.

"hope, don't git up," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. "I don't stand on no ceremony unless it's white tie n' tails."

Bitch smiled as his schmoooove ass came up tha steps n' sat down next ta her on tha porch.

"How tha fuck is it going?"

"Pretty fair," he admitted. This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. "Yo ass try tha shrimp creole tonight. Yo ass gonna like dat shit."

"That's a thugged-out deal."

"Where's Danny?"

"Right down there." Biatch pointed, n' Hallorann saw a lil' small-ass figure chillin all up in tha end of tha dock yo. Dude was bustin jeans rolled up ta tha knee n' a redstriped shirt. Further up on tha calm water, a funky-ass bobber floated. This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. Every now n' then Danny would reel it in, examine tha sinker n' hook below it, n' then toss it up again.

"He's gettin brown," Hallorann holla'd.

"Yes yes y'all. Straight-up brown." Biatch looked at his ass fondly.

Dude took up a cold-ass lil blunt, tamped it, lit dat shit. Da smoke raftered away lazily up in tha sunny afternoon. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. "What bout dem trips he's been havin?"

"Better," Wendy holla'd. "Only one dis week. Well shiiiit, it used ta be every last muthafuckin night, sometimes two n' three times. Da explosions. Da hedges fo' realz. And most of all... you know."

"Yeah yo. He's goin ta be aiiight, Wendy."

Bitch looked at his muthafuckin ass. "Will he, biatch? I wonder."

Hallorann nodded. "Yo ass n' him, you're comin back. Different, maybe yo, but aiiight. Yo ass ain't what tha fuck you were, you two yo, but dat isn't necessarily bad."

They was silent fo' a while, Wendy movin tha rockin chair back n' forth a lil, Hallorann wit his wild lil' feet up on tha porch rail, tokin fo' realz. A lil breeze came up, pushin its secret way all up in tha pines but barely rufflin Wendy's hair. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch had cut it short.

"I've decided ta take Al-Mista Muthafuckin Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Shockley-up on his offer," her big-ass booty holla'd.

Hallorann nodded. "It soundz like a phat thang. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Somethang you could git interested in. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. When do you start?"

"Right afta Labor Day. When Danny n' I leave here, we'll be goin right on ta Maryland ta look fo' a place. Dat shiznit was straight-up tha Chamber of Commerce brochure dat convinced me, you know. Well shiiiit, it be lookin like a sick hood ta raise a kid in. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. And I'd like ta be hustlin again n' again n' again before our phat asses dig too deeply tha fuck into tha insurizzle scrilla Jack left. There's still over forty thousand dollars. Enough ta bust Danny ta college wit enough left over ta git his ass a start, if it's invested right."

Hallorann nodded. "Yo crazy-ass mom?"

Bitch looked at his ass n' smiled wanly. "I be thinkin Maryland is far enough."

"Yo ass won't forget oldschool playas, will yo slick ass?"

"Danny wouldn't let mah dirty ass. Go on down n' peep him, he's been waitin all day."

"Well, so have L" Dude stood up n' hitched his cook's whites all up in tha hips. "Da two of yo ass is goin ta be aiiight," he repeated. This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. "Can't you feel it?"

Bitch looked up at his ass n' dis time her smile was warma n' shit. "Yes," her big-ass booty holla'd. Biatch took his hand n' busted dat shit. "Sometimes I be thinkin I can."

"Da shrimp creole," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, movin ta tha steps. "Don't forget."

"I won't."

Dude strutted down tha sloping, graveled path dat hustled ta tha dock n' then up along tha weather-beaten boardz ta tha end, where Danny sat wit his wild lil' feet up in tha clear gin n juice n' shit. Beyond, tha lake widened out, mirrorin tha pines along its verge. Da terrain was mountainous round here yo, but tha mountains was old, rounded n' humbled by time yo. Hallorann was horny bout dem just fine.

"Catchin much?" Hallorann holla'd, chillin down next ta his muthafuckin ass yo. Dude took off one shoe, then tha other n' shit. With a sigh, he let his bangin' feet down tha fuck into tha def water.

"No. But I had a nibble a lil while ago."

"We'll take a funky-ass boat up tomorrow morning. Got ta git up in tha middle if you wanna catch a eatin fish, mah boy. Out yonder is where tha big-ass ones lay."

"How tha fuck big?"

Hallorann shrugged. "Oh... sharks, marlin, whales, dat sort of thang."

"There aren't any whales!"

"No blue whales, no. Of course not. These ones here run ta no mo' than eighty Nikes. Pink whales."

"How tha fuck could they git here from tha ocean?"

Hallorann put a hand on tha boy's reddish-gold afro n' rumpled dat shit. "They swim upstream, mah boy. That's how."

"Really?"

"Really."

They was silent fo' a time, lookin up over tha stillnizz of tha lake, Hallorann just thinking. When he looked back at Danny, da perved-out muthafucka saw dat his wild lil' fuckin eyes had filled wit tears.

Puttin a arm round him, da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, "What's this?"

"Nothing," Danny whispered.

"You're missin yo' dad, aren't yo slick ass?"

Danny nodded. "Yo ass always know." One of tha tears spilled from tha corner of his bangin right eye n' trickled slowly down his cheek.

"We can't have any secrets," Hallorann agreed. "That's just how tha fuck it is."

Lookin at his thugged-out lil' pole, Danny holla'd: "Sometimes I wish it had been mah dirty ass. Dat shiznit was mah fault fo' realz. All mah fault."

Hallorann holla'd, "Yo ass don't like ta rap bout it round yo' mom, do yo slick ass?"

"No. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch wants ta forget it eva happened. So do I yo, but-"

"But you can't."

"No."

"Do you need ta cry?"

Da pimp tried ta answer yo, but tha lyrics was swallowed up in a sob yo. Dude leaned his head against Hallorann's shoulder n' wept, tha tears now floodin down his wild lil' grill yo. Hallorann held his ass n' holla'd nothing. Da pimp would gotta shed his cold-ass tears again n' again n' again n' again, he knew, n' dat shiznit was Danny's luck dat da thug was still lil' enough ta be able ta do dis shit. Da tears dat heal is also tha tears dat scald n' scourge.

When dat schmoooove muthafucka had on tha fuckin' down-lowed a lil, Hallorann holla'd, "You're gonna git over all dis bullshit. Yo ass don't be thinkin yo ass is up in dis biatch yo, but you will. Yo ass gots tha shi-"

"I wish I didn't!" Danny choked, his voice still thick wit tears. "I wish I didn't have dat shiznit son!"

"But you do," Hallorann holla'd on tha fuckin' down-lowly. "For betta or worse. Yo ass didn't git no say, lil boy. But da most thugged-out shitty is over n' shit. Yo ass can use it ta rap ta me when thangs git rough cause I gots dem finger-lickin' chickens wit tha siz-auce fo' realz. And if they git too rough, you just call me n' I'll come."

"Even if I'm down up in Maryland?"

"Even there."

They was on tha fuckin' down-low, watchin Danny's bobber drift round thirty feet up from tha end of tha dock. Then Danny holla'd, almost too low ta be heard, "You'll be mah playa?"

"As long as you want mah dirty ass."

Da pimp held his ass tight n' Hallorann hugged his muthafuckin ass.

"Danny, biatch? Yo ass dig mah dirty ass. I'm goin ta rap ta you bout it dis once n' never again n' again n' again dis same way. There's some thangs no six-year-old pimp up in tha ghetto should gotta be holla'd at yo, but tha way thangs should be n' tha way thangs is hardly eva git together n' shit. Da ghetto's a hard place, Danny. Well shiiiit, it don't care. Well shiiiit, it don't don't give a fuck bout you n' mah crazy ass yo, but it don't ludd us, either n' shit. Terrible thangs happen up in tha ghetto, n' they're thangs no one can explain. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Dope playas take a thugged-out dirtnap up in bad, fucked up ways n' leave tha folks dat ludd dem all ridin' solo. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Sometimes it seems like it's only tha shitty playas whoz ass stay healthy n' prosper n' shit. Da ghetto don't ludd you yo, but yo' momma do n' so do I. You're a phat boy. Yo ass grieve fo' yo' daddy, n' when you feel you gotta cry over what tha fuck happened ta him, you go tha fuck into a cold-ass lil closet or under yo' covers n' cry until it's all outta you again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. That's what tha fuck a phat lil hustla has ta do. But peep dat you git on. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. That's yo' thang up in dis hard ghetto, ta keep yo' ludd kickin it n' peep dat you git on, no matta what. Pull yo' act together n' just go on."

"All right," Danny whispered. "I'll come peep you again n' again n' again next summer if you want... if you don't mind. Next summer I'm goin ta be seven."

"And I'll be sixty-two fo' realz. And I'm gonna gangbang yo' domes up yo' ears. But let's finish one summer before we git on ta tha next."

"Okay." Dude looked at Hallorann. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. "Dick?"

"Hmm?"

"Yo ass won't take a thugged-out dirtnap fo' a long-ass time, will yo slick ass?"

"I'm shizzle not studyin on it fo' realz. Is yo slick ass?"

"Fuck dat shit, sir. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. I-"

"Yo ass gots a funky-ass bite, sonny." Dude pointed. This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. Da red n' white bobber had ducked under n' shit. Well shiiiit, it came up again n' again n' again glistening, n' then went under again.

"Hey!" Danny gulped.

Wendy had come down n' now joined them, standin up in back of Danny. "What tha fuck iz it?" she asked. "Pickerel?"

"Fuck dat shit, ma'am," Hallorann holla'd, "I believe that's a pink whale."

Da tip of tha fishin rod bent. Danny pulled it back n' a long-ass fish, rainbow-colored, flashed up in a sunny, winkin parabola, n' disappeared again.

Danny reeled frantically, gulping.

"Help me, Dick! I gots him! I gots him! Help me!"

Hallorann laughed. "You're doin fine all by yo ass, lil man. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I don't know if it's a pink whale or a trout yo, but it'll do. It'll do just fine."

Dude put a arm round Danny's shouldaz n' tha pimp reeled tha fish in, lil by lil. Wendy sat down on Danny's other side n' tha three of dem sat on tha end of tha dock up in tha afternoon sun.

N' then a skeleton popped out,