"Esther M. Friesner - Jesus at Bat" - читать интересную книгу автора (Friesner Esther M)

blackened and cracked and flaked from the charting bones and his dick fell
off.

And then, one day, something happened. Who knows how these things get started?
So much depends on serendipity. Pharaoh's daughter might have kept on walking
when she heard that wailing in the bulrushes. "Just one of the sacred cats
being
devoured by one of the sacred crocodiles," she'd say with a shrug of her sweet
brown shoulders, and Charlton Heston's resume would have been several pages
shorter.

What serendipped in this case was Vic Junior came into La Belle to see his
Morn
and by some karmic radar happened to find the one copy of Sports Illustrated
in
the whole establishment. Like a crow among the lilies it reposed in dog-cared
splendor amidst the issues of Woman's Day and Mademoiselle and Good
Housekeeping. Last desperate refuge of the male compelled for whatever unholy
cause to accompany his woman into the lair of glamor, its well-thumbed antique
pages gave moving testimony that a man will submerge himself in last year's
sports "news" sooner than he will open a copy of Cosmopolitan to willingly
read
"Impotence: Things Are Looking Up."

"Mom!" Vic Junior cried, bursting in on his hardworking parent, waving the
tattered magazine. "More, did you see this?"

Barb was giving Edna Newburgh a streak job. More couldn't see much of anything
for all the ammonia fumes peeling her eyeballs raw. "Don't bother Mommy now,
sweetheart," she said testily.

"But Mom, look! There's an article in here about how the American Little
League
champions got to go to Japan!" Vic Junior was insistent. Despite the noxious
atmosphere he jiggled closer to Edna Newburgh's reeking head and thrust the
magazine under his mother's nose.
"So what's that to you? Champions means winners. I said not now!" Barb
snapped,
flipping the open copy out of Vic Junior's hands with one jab of her elbow.
(That she could do this at all was mute testimony to the worthiness of Vic
Junior's team nickname, "Wimpgrip Harris.") Like some monstrous mutant
butterfly, the magazine took wing and fluttered to the hair-strewn floor.

Giving his mother a cold you'll-be-sorry-when-I-grow-up-to-be-a-cross-dresser
eye, Vic Junior gathered up his treasure, brushed clots of brown, black,
blonde,
and red tresses from the slick pages, and retreated to his chair in the
waiting
area.