still.
Apparently, Janet had not been heard. She rapped harder on the window.
A moment later, young Charles Arceneaux, the would-be Internet entrepreneur, loomed in the room beyond the window. His startled expression at the sight of a nude neighbor was as extreme as that of a cartoon character.
A member of the Old Race might have thought Charles looked comical just then, might have laughed out loud. Bucky was of the New Race, however, and he didn’t find
anything
comical. Arceneaux’s startled look only made Bucky want even more ardently to see himslashed, torn, broken, and dead. Such was the current—and growing—intensity of Bucky’s hatred that
any
expression crossing Charles Arceneaux’s face would inflame his passion for violence.
From between the fronds of the rafus palm, Bucky saw Charles speak. He couldn’t hear the words, but he could read the lips:
Mrs. Guitreau? Is that you?
From this side of the window, Janet said, “Oh, Charlie, oh, something terrible has happened.”
Charles stared but did not reply. Judging by the angle of the young man’s head, Bucky knew that Charlie was not staring at Janet’s face.
“Something terrible has happened,” she repeated, to break his hypnotic fascination with her ample yet perky breasts. “Only you can help me, Charlie.”
The moment Charles moved away from the window, Bucky left the cover of the potted palm. He took up a position against the house, beside the door between the family room and the veranda.
As Janet stepped to the French door, she looked as voracious as some primitive tribe’s goddess of death, teeth bared in a humorless grin, nostrils flared, eyes fierce with blood lust, wrathful and merciless.
Bucky worried that Charles, seeing this fearsome incarnation, would suddenly suspect her true intention, refuse to admit her, and raise an alarm.
When she reached the door, however, and turned to gaze in at Arceneaux, her expression was convincingly that of a frightened and helpless woman desperate to find a strong man to lean on with her ample but perky breasts.
Charles did not wrench the door open at once only because, in his eagerness, he fumbled helplessly with the lock. When he got it open, Janet whispered, “Oh, Charlie, I didn’t know where to go, and then … I remembered …
you.”
Bucky thought he heard something behind him on the veranda. He looked to his right, over his shoulder, but saw no one.
“What’s wrong, what’s happened?” Charles asked as Janet crossed the threshold into his arms.
“A terrible thing has happened,” Janet said, pressing Charles backward with her body, leaving the door open behind them.
Eager not to miss anything, but hesitant to reveal himself and enter the house before Janet had complete control of Charles, Bucky leaned to his left and peeked through the open door.
Just then Janet bit Charles somewhere that Bucky would never have thought of biting, and simultaneously she crushed his larynx, rendering him unable to scream.
Bucky hurried inside to watch, forgetting about the open door behind him.
Although Janet’s performance lasted significantly less than a minute, there was much for Bucky to see, an education in ferocity and cruelty that the torture specialists of the Third Reich could not have provided to anyone who devoted a year of study to them. He stood in awe of her inventiveness.
Considering the mess in the family room whenJanet was done, Bucky was
amazed
that she had made so little noise, certainly not enough to wake anyone who might be sleeping elsewhere in the house.
On the plasma-screen television, the chain-saw guy in the orange wig and the clown makeup did something to the girl chained to the statue of George S. Patton, something the moviemakers had thought was so unspeakable that audiences would shriek with horror and delight in order to repress the urge to vomit. But by comparison with Janet, the moviemakers were no more imaginative than any child sociopath tearing the wings
Apparently, Janet had not been heard. She rapped harder on the window.
A moment later, young Charles Arceneaux, the would-be Internet entrepreneur, loomed in the room beyond the window. His startled expression at the sight of a nude neighbor was as extreme as that of a cartoon character.
A member of the Old Race might have thought Charles looked comical just then, might have laughed out loud. Bucky was of the New Race, however, and he didn’t find
anything
comical. Arceneaux’s startled look only made Bucky want even more ardently to see himslashed, torn, broken, and dead. Such was the current—and growing—intensity of Bucky’s hatred that
any
expression crossing Charles Arceneaux’s face would inflame his passion for violence.
From between the fronds of the rafus palm, Bucky saw Charles speak. He couldn’t hear the words, but he could read the lips:
Mrs. Guitreau? Is that you?
From this side of the window, Janet said, “Oh, Charlie, oh, something terrible has happened.”
Charles stared but did not reply. Judging by the angle of the young man’s head, Bucky knew that Charlie was not staring at Janet’s face.
“Something terrible has happened,” she repeated, to break his hypnotic fascination with her ample yet perky breasts. “Only you can help me, Charlie.”
The moment Charles moved away from the window, Bucky left the cover of the potted palm. He took up a position against the house, beside the door between the family room and the veranda.
As Janet stepped to the French door, she looked as voracious as some primitive tribe’s goddess of death, teeth bared in a humorless grin, nostrils flared, eyes fierce with blood lust, wrathful and merciless.
Bucky worried that Charles, seeing this fearsome incarnation, would suddenly suspect her true intention, refuse to admit her, and raise an alarm.
When she reached the door, however, and turned to gaze in at Arceneaux, her expression was convincingly that of a frightened and helpless woman desperate to find a strong man to lean on with her ample but perky breasts.
Charles did not wrench the door open at once only because, in his eagerness, he fumbled helplessly with the lock. When he got it open, Janet whispered, “Oh, Charlie, I didn’t know where to go, and then … I remembered …
you.”
Bucky thought he heard something behind him on the veranda. He looked to his right, over his shoulder, but saw no one.
“What’s wrong, what’s happened?” Charles asked as Janet crossed the threshold into his arms.
“A terrible thing has happened,” Janet said, pressing Charles backward with her body, leaving the door open behind them.
Eager not to miss anything, but hesitant to reveal himself and enter the house before Janet had complete control of Charles, Bucky leaned to his left and peeked through the open door.
Just then Janet bit Charles somewhere that Bucky would never have thought of biting, and simultaneously she crushed his larynx, rendering him unable to scream.
Bucky hurried inside to watch, forgetting about the open door behind him.
Although Janet’s performance lasted significantly less than a minute, there was much for Bucky to see, an education in ferocity and cruelty that the torture specialists of the Third Reich could not have provided to anyone who devoted a year of study to them. He stood in awe of her inventiveness.
Considering the mess in the family room whenJanet was done, Bucky was
amazed
that she had made so little noise, certainly not enough to wake anyone who might be sleeping elsewhere in the house.
On the plasma-screen television, the chain-saw guy in the orange wig and the clown makeup did something to the girl chained to the statue of George S. Patton, something the moviemakers had thought was so unspeakable that audiences would shriek with horror and delight in order to repress the urge to vomit. But by comparison with Janet, the moviemakers were no more imaginative than any child sociopath tearing the wings
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