"James Patrick Kelly - Monsters" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kelly James Patrick)

image of himself bending toward a TV minicam, hands locked behind him as he
was pushed into a police car. Blue or blue-striped would show up best on the
Six O'Clock News.

He petted the shirts. Maybe he was already crazy, but it seemed to him that
if he 3:01 PM on 5/19/96 wore blue today, it might set off the chain reaction
of choices the creature was always trying to start. He pulled the white shirt
from its hanger.
Henry ate only two kinds of breakfast cereal, Cheerios and Rice Chex. Over
the years he had tried to simplify his life; routines were a defense against
bad thoughts. That's why he always watched the Weather Channel when he ate
Cheerios. He liked the satellite pictures of storms sweeping across the
country because he thought that was what weather must look like to God. He
didn't understand how people could think weather was boring; obviously they
hadn't seen it get loose.

After breakfast he tried to slip past the shrine and out the front door, but
he couldn't. The monster was stirring even though he had chosen the white
shirt. He dug the key out of his pocket, opened the shrine and turned on the
light. He was in the apartment's only closet, seven feet by four. Henry
bolted the door behind him.

The walls were shaggy with pictures he'd ripped out of magazines but he didn't
look at them. Not yet. He pressed the play button on the boom box and the
Rolling Stones bongoed into "Sympathy for the Devil." He knelt at the oak
chest which served as the altar. Inside was a plastic box. Inside the box,
cradled in pink velvet, was the Beretta.

He had bought the 92SB because of its honest lines. A little bulky in the
grip, the salesman had said, but only because inside was a fifteen shot
double-column magazine. It was cool as a snake to the touch, thirty-five hard
ounces of steel, anodized aluminum and black plastic. He wrapped his right
hand around the grip and felt the gentle bite of the serrations on the front
and rear of the frame. He stood, supported his right hand with his left,
extended his arms and howled along with Jagger. "Ow!"

Schwartzenegger trembled in his sights; even cyborgs feared the thing lurking
inside Henry West. "Now!" The pistol had a thrilling heft; it was more real
than he was. "Wham!" he cried, then let his arms drop. Manson gave him a
shaggy grimace of approval. Madonna shook her tits. The monster was
stretching; its claw slid up his throat.

He spun then and ruined Robert Englund, wham, David Duke, wham, and Mike
Tyson, wham, wham, wham. Metallica gave him sweaty glares. Imelda Marcos
simpered. Henry let a black rain of bad thoughts drench him. He'd give in
and let it loose on the Market Street bus or in the First Savings where that
twisty young teller never looked at him when she cashed his paycheck. He'd
blaze into Rudy's Lunch Bucket like that guy in Texas and keep slapping
magazines into the Beretta until he had the mass murder record. Only not when
Stefan was behind the counter. Stefan always gave him an extra pickle. Or