Added: Shikira Jhonson - Date: 04.10.2021 11:46 - Views: 21667 - Clicks: 9025
Share this:. Night had fallen, the boxes were alight. From their windows came the glow of den lamps and televisions, small squares of illumination that marched into the distance. There were thousands of them in the darkness, thousands of lives going on about her as Mary Terror guided the van between row after row of Linden's brick and woodframe houses.
Drummer, recently fed and changed, lay in his new bassinet on the floorboard and sucked on a pacifier. The van's heater had gotten cranky, wheezing with effort. Mary came to a four-way intersection, slowed, and then drove on, deeper into the heart of memory. The frigid wind swirled newspapers and trash before the headlights, and two men in heavy coats and caps with earflaps crossed the street.
Mary watched them move away, out of the lights. She kept going, looking for Carazella's grocery store. She thought she remembered it on the corner of Montgomery avenue and Charles Street, but a topless bar called Nicky's stood there. She wound through the streets, searching for the past. Mary Terror had changed. She had cropped her hair short, and dyed it light brown with reddish hints.
She had dyed her eyebrows light brown as well, and dotted freckles over her nose and cheeks with an eyebrow pencil. She couldn't do much about her size but slump, but she was wearing new clothes: warmer duds - brown corduroy trousers, a blue flannel shirt, and a fleece-lined jacket. On her feet was a new pair of brown boots. Since leaving her mother, Mary and Drummer had lived in a series of rooms that gave new meaning to the term "roach motel. She had plucked them off, one by one, and crushed them between her fingers. She didn't like the way the woman had looked at Drummer, as if some light switch were just about to click on in the woman's crack-fried brain.
Mary had stayed there less than one hour, then had gotten Drummer out and hit the road again. The places they stayed took cash and didn't ask for identification, and most of the time the clientele were whores and Johns, dopehe and hustlers. Two pigs had come in while she was eating her pancakes - "griddle cakes," they called them up here - and Drummer was in his bassinet next to her.
The pigs had sat down at the booth behind her, ordering up the Hungry Man Breakfasts. Drummer had started crying, a nettlesome sound, and he wouldn't be pacified. His crying had risen to a shriek, and finally one of the pigs looked over at Drummer and said, "Hey! You didn't get your mornin' java, or whati" "She's always cranky in the morning," Mary had told the pig with a polite smile.
How would he know whether Drummer was a boy or girli She'd picked Drummer up and rocked him, cooing and clucking, and Short blonde i was your Trenton New Jersey pig crying had begun to ebb. Mary had been damp under her arms, her spine prickling with tension, and the little Magnum pistol in her new carry-all shoulder bag.
Mary forced herself to finish her pancakes, but she couldn't taste them anymore. Then she stood up, paid her bill, and got Drummer out, and in the parking lot she'd spat on the pig car's windshield. Where was Carazella's grocery storei The neighborhood had changed. Oh, the things she and Jack would teach him! He was going to be a walking fortress of militant politics and philosophy, and he wouldn't take shit from anybody on earth. She turned right onto Chambers Street.
Woodroan avenue, she thought. That's where I turn left! In another moment she saw theand there was the building on the corner that had been Carazella's. It was still a grocery store, but now it was called Lo Wah's. She drove on two more blocks, took a right on Elderman Street, and she stopped the van about halfway down the block. There it was. They'd built the house back. It was gray, and in need of painting. Other houses were crowded in around it, the structures jammed together with little respect for space and privacy.
She knew that behind the houses were tiny yards squared off with fences, and a warren of alleys for the garbagemen. Oh yes, she knew this neighborhood very, very well. The Storm Front was in that house, preparing its mission on the weeping lady. Gary Leister, a native New Yorker, had been renting the house under an alias. Lord Jack knew a dude in Bolivia who sent up cocaine in boxes of cigars, the smokes hollowed out and packed with blow. It was with two of these shipments that the Storm Front paid their black-market source in Newark for an assortment of automatic pistols, riot shotguns, hand grenades, plastic explosive, a dozen fresh sticks of dynamite, and a couple of Uzi submachine guns.
The house, painted light green in those days, had been an arsenal from which the Storm Front stalked pigs, lawyers, and Manhattan businessmen whom they deemed cogs of the Mindfuck State. The Storm Fronters had kept themselves clean and quiet, holding down the volume of all music and cutting back on their pot smoking.
The neighbors had thought that the kids who lived in the house at Elderman Street had been a strange mix of white, black, and Oriental, but this was the prime of "all in the Family" and the archie Bunkers of the world groused in their armchairs but minded their own business. The Storm Fronters had made a point of being friendly to the neighbors, of helping the older residents paint their houses and wash their cars. Mary had even earned some extra cash by baby-sitting for an Italian couple a street over.
CinCin Omara, a mathematics major at Berkeley, had tutored a neighborhood kid in algebra. Sancho Clemenza, a Chicano poet who spoke four languages, had been a clerk at Carazella's grocery. James Xavier Toombs, who had killed his first pig when he was sixteen years old, had been a short-order cook at the Majestic Diner on Woodroan avenue. The Storm Fronters had blended into the neighborhood, had covered themselves over with the camouflage of the workaday world, and no one had ever guessed that they planned murders and bombings in midnight sessions that left them all flying high on their sweetest drug: rage.
Why the fuck didn't you look where you were goingi" "It's no problem! It was just a little dent, that's all. They weren't supposed to be parked right on our ass. Mary sat in a rocking chair in the corner, her hands folded over the swelling of Jack's child in her belly.
The was forged, as were all their s. Edward flipped his long brown ponytail back. He was a barrel-chested black man who wore african be and amulets around his neck, and he went to a window and peered out at the street. Hell, no. Why would they follow usi" There Short blonde i was your Trenton New Jersey pig a quaver in Edward's voice.
She was a lovely young woman with green eyes and braided hair as red as a battle flag, her bone structure Iowa solid. Gary Leister was already attacking one of the pizzas, and James Xavier Toombs sat with his pipe clenched between his teeth and a book of haiku in his lap, his face as emotionless as a black Buddha. He went to the window, looked out, and paced again.
Today, not next fucking week! Jack's piercing blue gaze found CinCin. She left a slice of pizza half eaten and went without question, knowing he was telling her to go out and sniff the air for the stench of pigs. Then Jack walked over to Mary, and he placed his hand against her belly.
She grasped his fingers and looked up into his fiery beauty, his long blond hair hanging around his shoulders and a hawk's feather dangling from a ring in his right earlobe. Mary started to say I love you, but she checked it. Lord Jack didn't believe in the word; what passed as love, he said, was a tool of the Mindfuck State.
He believed in courage, truth, and loyalty, of brothers and sisters willing to lay down their lives for each other and the cause. One-to-one "love," he believed, came from the false world of button-down stiffs and their robotic, manicured prostitutes. But she couldn't help it. She loved him, though she dared not say it. His wrath could strike like lightning and leave ashes in its wake. Jack rubbed her belly, and he looked at akitta. You walk to the Laundromat and back. Take a couple of dollars and get some change in the machine. Mary knew Jack was setting up a defensive perimeter.
Gary walked out into the still, humid evening, and the smell of somebody's burgers on a grill drifted into the house. Jack stood at the front window, working his knuckles. He said, "I don't hear Frodo. The Giangellos called him Caesar, but Jack had named him Frodo because of the dog's massive hairy paws.
Frodo's bark was distinctive, a deep, throaty woof that started up with the regularity of a machine whenever any other dogs barked in the neighborhood. Jack looked at the other Storm Fronters. His tongue flicked out, lizardlike, to skim his lower lip. There was electricity in the room, the pizzas forgotten.
Mary had stopped rocking, her hands gripped on the armrests. James Xavier Toombs returned the book of haiku to the well-stocked bookshelf. He removed a thick red volume titled Democracy in Crisis. He opened it and took his. There was a crisp click as he checked the ammo clip. James Xavier Toombs, a man of few words, said, "Trouble. Bedelia Morse took her revolver and went to the back to watch the northeastern corner of the house, Sancho took the southwestern corner, and Toombs and Lord Jack stayed in the front room.
Mary checked on Edward and Janette; neither one had seen anything remotely suspicious. Then Mary settled herself in the small bedroom overlooking the street, and she sat in a chair near the window with the lights off. The lights were also off in the house directly across Elderman, but that was nothing unusual. The old couple who lived there, the Steinfelds, were in bed by seven o'clock, and it was after eight. Steinfeld had emphysema, and his wife suffered from a bad bladder and had to wear adult-sized diapers. Changing diapers was a task that would be in Mary's future.Short blonde i was your Trenton New Jersey pig
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