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Roger Zelazny. Trumps of Doom

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Roger Zelazny
THE AMBER CHRONICLES - BOOK SIX
TRUMPS OF DOOM
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CHAPTER 1

It is a pain in the ass waiting around for someone to try to kill you.
But it was April 30, and of course it would happen as it always did. It had
taken me a while to catch on, but now I at least knew when it was coming. In
the past, I'd bin too busy to do anything about it. But my job was finished
now. I'd only stayed around for this. I felt that I really ought to clear
the matter up before I departed.I got out of bed, visited the
bathroom,showered, brushed my teeth, et cetera. I'd grown a beard again, so
I didn't have to shave. I was not jangling with strange apprehensions, as I
had been on that April 30 three years ago when I'd awakened with a headache
and a premonition, thrown open the windows, and gone to the kitchen to
discover all of the gas burners turned on and flameless. No. It wasn't even
like the April 30 two years ago in the other apartment when I awoke before
dawn to a faint smell of smoke to learn that the place was on fire. Still, I
stayed out of direct line of the light fixtures in case the bulbs were
filled with something flammable, and I flipped all of the switches rather
than pushing them. Nothing untoward followed these actions.
Usually, I set up the coffee maker the night before with a timer. This
morning, though, I didn'.t want coffee that had been produced out of my
sight. I set a fresh pot going and checked my packing while I waited for it
to brew. Everything I valued in this place resided in two medium-sized
cratesclothing, books, paintings, some instruments, a few souvenirss, and so
forth. I sealed the cases. A change of clothing, a sweatshirt, a good
paperback, and a wad of traveler's checks went into the backpack. I'd drop
my key off at the manager's on the way out, so he could let the movers in.
The crates would go into storage.
No jogging for me this morning.
As I sipped my coffee, passing from window to window and pausing beside
each for sidelong surveys of the streets below and the buildings across the
way (last year's attempt had been - by someone with a rifle}, I thought back
to the first time it had happened, seven years ago. I had simply been
walking down the street on a bright spring afternoon when an oncoming truck
had swerved, jumped the curb, and nearly combined me with portions of a
brick wall. I was able to dive out of the way and roll. The driver never
regained consciousness. It had seemed one of those freak occurrences that
occasionally invade the lives of us all.
The following year to the day, however, I was walking home from my lady
friend's place late in the evening when three men attacked me-one with a
knife, the other two with lengths of pipe-without even the courtesy of first
asking for my wallet.