"George R. R. Martin - WC 9 - Jokertown Shuffle" - читать интересную книгу автора (Martin George R R)

Yeah? Well, that's bullshit. Crap. A load of bloatblack. You think I really rule
this place? You gotta be kidding. Look, I used to play D&D. Most of the time, I
ran a character who controlled a little kingdom in the scenario our Dungeon
Master had dreamed up. Y'know what? That fantasy's about as real as the
"kingdom" I have here.
You can't hear what they're thinking when they talk to me: Prime, Blaise, Molly,
K. C., the other jumpers. Even the jokers, even the ones the wild card cursed.
"God, I'm glad I'm not like him" or " I don't care how much he knows or what
kind of powers he has, he's just a fuckin' kid.. . ."
I know. I know what they think of me. I know what they think of the Rox too. My
Rox is a convenient refuge, but if Ellis Island sank into New York Bay tomorrow,
they'd find another place. The jumpers would melt into the city's back alleys;
the jokers ... the jokers would do what jokers have always done: Shrug their


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shoulders-if they got 'em-and head for Jokertown.
So just what am I going to do? Threaten to take my basketball and go home, huh?
You think I'm likely to go anywhere at all? Man, I was lucky I managed to get
here three years ago when I was only the size of a school bus. Now... hell, the
blue whale's no longer the world's biggest mammal. I'm bigger than a whole pod
of fucking whales. What's it like?
You can't visualize Bloat. You can't empathize with me. It's not possible.
Every goddamn joker's hell is individual and private. So just leave it that way.
I hate being judge and jury. I even know why.
My parents were weak-willed. Hey, sure ... most kids blame it on their folks.
But why not? Mine were spineless, accommodating people who let the neighbors,
store clerks, and anyone in a position of authority push them around. They were
two nice people who would gladly change their opinions and back down at any hint
of opposition. They were two charming people, really, who let the neighborhood
scum intimidate and harass their son, the high school poet; their son, the "oh,
what a talented artist"; their son, the-one-with-his-head-inthe-comic-books.
They kept telling me (when I came home with bloody noses and black eyes and torn
clothes): "Well, if they're bothering you, why didn't you just walk away? Maybe
it's something you're doing. Concentrate on your drawing or your writing or your
schoolwork, Teddy. Play that strange fantasy dice game of yours or read a comic
book. When you grow up a little, they'll stop."
They were two compassionate people who, when Ted slammed into puberty by turning
into a slug the size of a subway car, didn't just abandon me. No. First they
called the Jokertown Clinic, and then they disappeared.
Gone. Vanished.
Well, Mom and Dad, Teddy sure as hell grew up, didn't he? I wish I were less
your son now, because just getting big didn't help and I'm still carrying all
your emotional baggage with me.
So how do I do what I want to do? How do you find a way to mix power with a
little compassion? How do you make the other players on the stage of the Rox see
that they're too damn shortsighted and selfish? How do you stay an idealist in a
world of greedy pragmatists?