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"I'll never talk," the Dog continued, "and then you'll always wonder if I would have. It'll gnaw you for the rest of your life." "I don't care!" Jimmy yelled, flinging a Bible across the room. He had to yank seven times but he finally managed to tear the fake painting off the wall and throw it too. "I'm warning you, if I find you out there tomorrow," he yelled, sweat pouring down his face, "I'm taking you to the pound!" "No you won't." "I will!" "Won't." "Will!" Jimmy realized that he'd clawed all the covers off of the bed and was twisting a sheet around and around, making a rope of it as though-- As though for a jail break, a bust out, a Houdini escape. He shot across the room, his body knowing what to do before his mind even formed the words, "I'll strangle him myself." When he threw open the door, the Dog's mouth froze in mid laugh. Jimmy lunged.
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The Dog managed to wiggle through his hands. It raced between his legs, laughing down the steps: "Talk, talk as fast as you can, you can't catch me, I'm the milkbone man!" At the bottom, it lifted a leg to show Jimmy its hairy cock. Jimmy hurdled the banister. He chased the Dog around the trailer court, upsetting outdoor grills and outdoor grillers. Fury made him blind to everything but the Dog, sprinting only far enough ahead so it could pause to curl up its tail, like a beckoning finger, and show Jimmy its pink asshole. By the time the dog led him out into the dazzle of the casino's front lights, Jimmy's heart was straining as hard as the air conditioner that was too small for his room. Nauseous with fatigue, his steps began to go crooked, drunken. The spokes of an enormous, neon wheel of fortune seemed to lift him up, turn him about. Somewhere in his head he heard the booming of the Mirage's volcano, his brain going red with its fire when he saw the Dog taunting him from the other side of The Strip: "Comeon, Jimmy," it hooted, "even the chicken had the balls to cross the road--ooo-he-woo-ha-haaaa!" |