"Eliot Fintushel - Izzy and the Father of Terror" - читать интересную книгу автора (Fintushel Eliot)

the mind of his abandoned son.

If you fiddle with the tracking on a VCR,
sometimes you can see another movie just
under the one youтАЩve been watching. It
flirts between the scenes, steals
outlines, blurs faces, commandeers bits of
dialogue, makes a lawn into a lake, a

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domestic comedy into a primeval
horror?duck-rabbit. Gone JoeтАЩs old, blue
watch cap wanted to preempt GypsyтАЩs beard.

"Did I get some butter in there or
something? Robins lay an egg? What?"

"No. Sorry. YouтАЩre from Sanduleak, right?"

GypsyтАЩs jaw dropped. I mean, it really
dropped; it hit his sternum, then sprang
back, like a bungee jumper. The whole
thing took maybe two seconds, during which
I glimpsed GypsyтАЩs real body. In there,
behind the phony jaw, a yellow snake
bristled and shifted. There was a gasp
from one of the tourist tables, babble,
then hush. Gypsy stood; his hams shoved
back the truckerтАЩs table.

"Goddamnit, you fat slug!" The trucker
slammed down his coffee and stood up. Gone
Joe had penetrated the seam up to his
elbows.

"IтАЩm terribly sorry," Gypsy said. "IтАЩm
just fat, see? IтАЩm big. IтАЩm clumsy. I
canтАЩt help it."

I could see the truckerтАЩs face cloud. It
was a new one on him. He paused. He
frowned. He said, "AinтАЩt you got no pride
whatsoever?" He sat down again and mopped
up spilled coffee with another paper
napkin. He cussed under his breath, then
said, "Just be careful, get it?"

"I get it," Gypsy said. "Thank you very