The Sum of My Existence - 5
I had always tried to be a patient man. Even what they call a long-suffering man. But a fellow can only put up with having his nose tweaked for so long before he starts thinking about things. I’m talking about ideas of an unnatural sort. Irregular notions. Like how someone—no one in particular, mind you—how this someone might go about melting automotive sheet metal using only household materials. Or how someone—just any old person—might fill someone else’s locker with hot road tar. Or whether someone else entirely—some guy off the street, say—whether this party would be able to transfer something—a water moccasin, for example—from a cardboard box in his possession to a trailer home owned by another party, without that party knowing.
When I wasn’t thinking, I was pondering That Night At Schimmel’s. I began to see it as a movie of the week, with Mr. Lee Majors as me and Ernest Borgnine as 9. 16 had to play herself, of course; no one else could capture the way she could look at you out of the corner of her eye. That little dewdrop still rang my bell.