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Authors: William S. Burroughs
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you were making."
"But . . ." The two men turn and regard him with stony disapproval. They are obvious hard cases. "Bloody Hell . . . you're crazy!" he says and walks out quickly.
It is then he notices that a small gray dog is following him. He whirls and kicks. The dog moves behind him. He tries several times but the dog is always behind him no matter how quickly he turns.
The dog soon becomes an obsession. It will follow him for several blocks and then disappear. At length he buys a heavy blackthorn cane. For several days the dog is absent. Then, as he is walking down Old Brompton Road, where the Empress Hotel used to be, the dog is once again at his heels: a small gray dog with a strange, fishy odor. At the corner of Old Brompton and North End Road he whirls, sweeping the cane behind him. The cane encounters empty air. Prick stumbles and falls into the path of a laundry truck.
Prick's accidental death is small item on the back page. See reads it and he doesn't like it. He is a methodical man with a photographic memory. He rents a typewriter and chronicles a detailed account of the contracts he has fulfilled for British military intelligence: "I Was a Professional Evil Eye for MI-5." He deposits the envelope with a solicitor, to be dispatched to The News of the World , People , and the more conservative media, including the London Times , in the event of his demise, by accident or otherwise.
In MI-5 there are raised eyebrows. "I think Prick got drunk and fell in front of a car, period. And good riddance."
"Good riddance to be sure, but . . ."
Same office, five days later:
"See's got the wind up, threatening to go to the media. Wants money and a new identity in America."
"He should live so long."
The operative drops an envelope on the table. "That's the original, from his solicitor's safe. What we substituted is insane, paranoid ravings."
"Ah, very good. I think Henry can handle it."
See is having a beer at a corner table in a pub on North End Road.
"Who are you fucking staring at?" Four skinheads with bovver boots ranged along the bar.
"Look, I wasn't staring."
The boy contracts his eyes into a grimace of hate.
"You wasn't staring? " They spread out, moving forward.
See regained consciousness in the emergency room.
"You took quite a beating. Nothing broken, luckily. However, there may be a delayed concussion. We'd advise you to stay in the hospital forty-eight hours at least."
"No. I'm all right."
The intern shrugged.
A brown dog followed See out of the hospital. He couldn't shake it. It was, he decided, a tracking device. They are trying to find out where the envelope is. Well, he isn't such a fool as to go to his solicitor's office.
Arriving at his bed-sitting room, he opened the street door and shut it quickly. But when he opened the door of his room, the dog slid in ahead of him. He made a grab for it, and needle-sharp teeth slashed his hand.
"Bloody Hell." He bolted the door. "Now I've got the son of a bitch."
He went to the desk and took a .22 semiauto with a silencer from a hidden compartment. He started looking under chairs, poking in closets, his hand dripping blood.
"Must be in the bathroom." He looked behind the bathroom door, glanced into the mirror. It was all over in a few seconds.
A Spec Ops agent talks to the Medical Examiner: "Anything unusual about this one?"
"Hmmm, yes, several things. First, location of the wound, in the middle of the forehead . . . an awkward angle. Evidently he was standing in front of the bathroom mirror. Usual place is the temple, or, for those in the know, up through the roof of the mouth. Police call it 'eating the gun' or 'smoking it.' And the wounds on his hand, like a barracuda's bite."
"Couldn't it have been broken glass? He may have shoved his fist through a window. We have reason to believe he was irrational."
"I don't think so. There were no glass splinters, and the scratches all slant one way."
"A cat perhaps?"
"Room was locked from
"But . . ." The two men turn and regard him with stony disapproval. They are obvious hard cases. "Bloody Hell . . . you're crazy!" he says and walks out quickly.
It is then he notices that a small gray dog is following him. He whirls and kicks. The dog moves behind him. He tries several times but the dog is always behind him no matter how quickly he turns.
The dog soon becomes an obsession. It will follow him for several blocks and then disappear. At length he buys a heavy blackthorn cane. For several days the dog is absent. Then, as he is walking down Old Brompton Road, where the Empress Hotel used to be, the dog is once again at his heels: a small gray dog with a strange, fishy odor. At the corner of Old Brompton and North End Road he whirls, sweeping the cane behind him. The cane encounters empty air. Prick stumbles and falls into the path of a laundry truck.
Prick's accidental death is small item on the back page. See reads it and he doesn't like it. He is a methodical man with a photographic memory. He rents a typewriter and chronicles a detailed account of the contracts he has fulfilled for British military intelligence: "I Was a Professional Evil Eye for MI-5." He deposits the envelope with a solicitor, to be dispatched to The News of the World , People , and the more conservative media, including the London Times , in the event of his demise, by accident or otherwise.
In MI-5 there are raised eyebrows. "I think Prick got drunk and fell in front of a car, period. And good riddance."
"Good riddance to be sure, but . . ."
Same office, five days later:
"See's got the wind up, threatening to go to the media. Wants money and a new identity in America."
"He should live so long."
The operative drops an envelope on the table. "That's the original, from his solicitor's safe. What we substituted is insane, paranoid ravings."
"Ah, very good. I think Henry can handle it."
See is having a beer at a corner table in a pub on North End Road.
"Who are you fucking staring at?" Four skinheads with bovver boots ranged along the bar.
"Look, I wasn't staring."
The boy contracts his eyes into a grimace of hate.
"You wasn't staring? " They spread out, moving forward.
See regained consciousness in the emergency room.
"You took quite a beating. Nothing broken, luckily. However, there may be a delayed concussion. We'd advise you to stay in the hospital forty-eight hours at least."
"No. I'm all right."
The intern shrugged.
A brown dog followed See out of the hospital. He couldn't shake it. It was, he decided, a tracking device. They are trying to find out where the envelope is. Well, he isn't such a fool as to go to his solicitor's office.
Arriving at his bed-sitting room, he opened the street door and shut it quickly. But when he opened the door of his room, the dog slid in ahead of him. He made a grab for it, and needle-sharp teeth slashed his hand.
"Bloody Hell." He bolted the door. "Now I've got the son of a bitch."
He went to the desk and took a .22 semiauto with a silencer from a hidden compartment. He started looking under chairs, poking in closets, his hand dripping blood.
"Must be in the bathroom." He looked behind the bathroom door, glanced into the mirror. It was all over in a few seconds.
A Spec Ops agent talks to the Medical Examiner: "Anything unusual about this one?"
"Hmmm, yes, several things. First, location of the wound, in the middle of the forehead . . . an awkward angle. Evidently he was standing in front of the bathroom mirror. Usual place is the temple, or, for those in the know, up through the roof of the mouth. Police call it 'eating the gun' or 'smoking it.' And the wounds on his hand, like a barracuda's bite."
"Couldn't it have been broken glass? He may have shoved his fist through a window. We have reason to believe he was irrational."
"I don't think so. There were no glass splinters, and the scratches all slant one way."
"A cat perhaps?"
"Room was locked from
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