Read Online John Dies at the End by David Wong - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: David Wong
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was doing, got no answer. I could see he was still breathing. That was good. Sleeping, that’s all. I guessed that was good, too.
If he gets sick and dies, Robert Marley, they’re gonna find you in a ditch somewhere.
I stopped at a red light, feeling foolish as always for stopping at an intersection at an hour when the streets are deserted, just because a colored lightbulb told me to. Society has got me so fucking trained. I rubbed my eyes and groaned and felt utterly alone in the world.
Thump!
Scratching, on the window.
Like claws.
I flinched, turned.
It was claws.
Molly’s. She was on her hind legs, her paws pressed against the window.
“Woof!”
“Go away!”
“Woof!”
“Shut up!”
“WOOF!”
“Hey! I said shut up! Get your feet off my car!”
“WOOF! WOOF! WOOF!”
“Shut up! Shut up! Shut! Up!”
This went on for longer than I care to admit, and it ended with me getting out and leaning my seat forward so Molly could jump into the back. Yes, the entire spiraling trajectory my life took since that night was because I lost a debate with a dog.
She sniffed around John and then barked at me, the sound deafening in the enclosed space. Still, John didn’t stir.
“What do you want ?”
That seemed like a perfectly reasonable question at that moment. The dog clearly had intentions, somehow, and wasn’t going to leave me alone until I acted on them.
“ What? Do you think I’m your master? Did little Timmy fall down the fucking well? What do you—”
I stopped, my eye drawn to her jingling collar, and the little metal tag there.
I’m Molly.
Please return me to . . .
She stopped barking.
THE PLACE WAS way the hell out of town, out near the big drain cleaner factory.
At one point I took a right turn and Molly went into a barking fit. I did a U-turn and she immediately calmed down.
I saw a big, run-down Victorian house standing off by itself at the end of the block, and realized the dog had just directed me to the right address. I didn’t know if dogs really did that but at that moment I was sure this dog could do it—
“Oh, shit. ”
I actually said that out loud, in the car. Something had clicked so hard in my mind my whole body twitched.
I knew this place. I flashed back to the party, a huge kid with red hair, his back to me, standing with Robert the fake Jamaican.
That was Big Jim Sullivan.
This is his house.
Big Jim was a year ahead of me in school, six inches taller and twice my weight. He got famous around town after a carjacking attempt, which ended with Jim tearing the gun out of the assailant’s hand (ripping the skin off the guy’s trigger finger in the process) and then beating the man over the head with his own gun. Afterward Jim visited the guy in the hospital and spent several hours reading Bible verses to him. He once won a fight with Zach Goldstein by chucking him bodily over a guardrail.
I had lived in constant fear of the man, and even now I had the urge to flip the dog out of the car window and speed away.
You see, Jim had a sister.
We called her “Cucumber,” but I couldn’t remember her real name. She was in Special Ed, a couple of years younger than me. People think she got that nickname because of some sexual thing, but it was a reference to sea cucumbers. They have this defense mechanism where they puke up their guts when faced with a predator, hoping the predator will go for their guts rather than eating them. I should know, I made up the nickname.
You see, Jim’s sister used to throw up a lot, and I mean a lot . Like, twice a week at school she’d wind up vomiting somewhere or on somebody. I don’t know what exactly caused it. She had a lot of things wrong with her but at least she got one of the more clever nicknames out of the deal.
My last year in school, after I had gotten sent off and put into the Behavior Disorder program, Big Jim heard me using that nickname and I lived the rest of my school days afraid he would break me into little
If he gets sick and dies, Robert Marley, they’re gonna find you in a ditch somewhere.
I stopped at a red light, feeling foolish as always for stopping at an intersection at an hour when the streets are deserted, just because a colored lightbulb told me to. Society has got me so fucking trained. I rubbed my eyes and groaned and felt utterly alone in the world.
Thump!
Scratching, on the window.
Like claws.
I flinched, turned.
It was claws.
Molly’s. She was on her hind legs, her paws pressed against the window.
“Woof!”
“Go away!”
“Woof!”
“Shut up!”
“WOOF!”
“Hey! I said shut up! Get your feet off my car!”
“WOOF! WOOF! WOOF!”
“Shut up! Shut up! Shut! Up!”
This went on for longer than I care to admit, and it ended with me getting out and leaning my seat forward so Molly could jump into the back. Yes, the entire spiraling trajectory my life took since that night was because I lost a debate with a dog.
She sniffed around John and then barked at me, the sound deafening in the enclosed space. Still, John didn’t stir.
“What do you want ?”
That seemed like a perfectly reasonable question at that moment. The dog clearly had intentions, somehow, and wasn’t going to leave me alone until I acted on them.
“ What? Do you think I’m your master? Did little Timmy fall down the fucking well? What do you—”
I stopped, my eye drawn to her jingling collar, and the little metal tag there.
I’m Molly.
Please return me to . . .
She stopped barking.
THE PLACE WAS way the hell out of town, out near the big drain cleaner factory.
At one point I took a right turn and Molly went into a barking fit. I did a U-turn and she immediately calmed down.
I saw a big, run-down Victorian house standing off by itself at the end of the block, and realized the dog had just directed me to the right address. I didn’t know if dogs really did that but at that moment I was sure this dog could do it—
“Oh, shit. ”
I actually said that out loud, in the car. Something had clicked so hard in my mind my whole body twitched.
I knew this place. I flashed back to the party, a huge kid with red hair, his back to me, standing with Robert the fake Jamaican.
That was Big Jim Sullivan.
This is his house.
Big Jim was a year ahead of me in school, six inches taller and twice my weight. He got famous around town after a carjacking attempt, which ended with Jim tearing the gun out of the assailant’s hand (ripping the skin off the guy’s trigger finger in the process) and then beating the man over the head with his own gun. Afterward Jim visited the guy in the hospital and spent several hours reading Bible verses to him. He once won a fight with Zach Goldstein by chucking him bodily over a guardrail.
I had lived in constant fear of the man, and even now I had the urge to flip the dog out of the car window and speed away.
You see, Jim had a sister.
We called her “Cucumber,” but I couldn’t remember her real name. She was in Special Ed, a couple of years younger than me. People think she got that nickname because of some sexual thing, but it was a reference to sea cucumbers. They have this defense mechanism where they puke up their guts when faced with a predator, hoping the predator will go for their guts rather than eating them. I should know, I made up the nickname.
You see, Jim’s sister used to throw up a lot, and I mean a lot . Like, twice a week at school she’d wind up vomiting somewhere or on somebody. I don’t know what exactly caused it. She had a lot of things wrong with her but at least she got one of the more clever nicknames out of the deal.
My last year in school, after I had gotten sent off and put into the Behavior Disorder program, Big Jim heard me using that nickname and I lived the rest of my school days afraid he would break me into little
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