Larry wonders if this is the only thing he's totally blanked on. Maybe they should call the fat guy.
"Did anyone get the fat guy's number? I think he had the address. Or we could just walk him there?"Nobody is forthcoming with any phone numbers, though. And
Halesey looks more distracted than usual. His eyes also seem to be full of soapy-looking white stuff. Some of it is running down his cheeks.
"Crap. I think someone's cursed my face or something. Larry, look at me. What the eejiting hell is happening to my face?"Larry, though an educated, cultured man, isn't sure how to explain this exactly. His first instinct would be to say that Halesey is crying soap for some reason. And by some reason, he means "magic", because it is not only the simplest explanation that is always available, it has also gained shocking validity after today's events.
Halesey, who has no opportunity to survey what is happening to his face, unlike Larry, wonders what he could possibly do about it. He supposes he could wait for it to pass. Or he could dunk his head in milk, that might work as well. Or he could do this the proper, and some would say only worthwhile way, with the assistance of a potato vortex. After all, potato vortexes have so far been the solution to every problem. Halesey sees no reason why he should go against common wisdom, really.
Unaware of Halesey's predictable thought process, Larry decides to lead Herbert over to the factory, which isn't really very far at all, just a couple blocks away. Larry silently leads Herbert over there and points at the building.
"Oh, that place! 17 Import Avenue! I think I actually know the guy who owns it. I think I have his name written down someplace in my office. Let's, um, go back there, yes? I'm not feeling very good about leaving Mr. Halesey back there all alone."* * * * *
As the rather awful Saturday afternoon begins to draw to a close, many people of all walks of life are running down the tree-lined Harper Avenue. Shouts of triumph and screams of terror mingle together as the procession storms through the streets, carried by the spirit of panic and recent freedom, and also the fact that there's dinosaurs. Goddamn dinosaurs running about, yeah, that too. They don't seem overly concerned with eating all human life yet, but can you really trust the feathered fiends? The group of doctors over at Sweet Temperance Sanitarium clearly didn't, running off and evacuating like they did. At least they left the doors open.
Willy is particularly glad. He never liked those doctors. They were mean to him the entire time he was there. They treated him even worse than the Human Skeleton or Crazy Tim. Well, they kinda treated him the same, really, except they were smug and patronizing about it to an unusual degree. Fortunately, that's over now. Now he gets to open up a new page on his life, one with fewer mean doctors that keep telling him wrong things and lies all the time.
As Willy runs as quickly as his legs will allow, he becomes aware of a pair of hands grabbing him from behind. They are familiar hands. Their rather coarse, spindly texture and the profound lack of manners they display both quickly betray that they belong to none other than Hungry Pete, the funny man who once lived in the room next to Willy.
"Come with me, boy! I have secrets I wish to reveal!" Hungry Pete declares, tugging at Willy's shoulders and trying to get him away from the crowd. Willy wonders if he needs an adult right now.
Nah, who is he kidding. He doesn't need adults. Billy's always there to give him sound advice.
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Topic: The Forgotten Art: Approaching the Nexus (Read 267301 times)