Читать книгу Day of Atonement - Faye Kellerman, Faye Kellerman - Страница 8

He always hated this time of year.

The holidays.

It reminded him of fish.

Fish was real big this time of year, especially fish heads. Yum-yum, fish heads. And then there was ground-up fish—everyone wanting to make gefilte fish.

No carp, just white and pikefish.

Just whitefish.

Just carp.

Just carp and pikefish.

Can you put in some bread crumbs?

Can you put in an onion?

More onion.

Less onion.

No onion.

Fuuuuuuucccckkkk you.

Carp were disgusting fish, smelling like garbage. They were bottom feeders so they ate a lot of shit. You are what you eat.

Open up carp and hold your nose. Finding all sorts of gunk inside them. Grit and sand and dirt and lots and lots of worms, especially if they’d been fished out of polluted waters. Sometimes he’d find pop tabs or bottle caps. Sometimes green bottleglass.

If he really hated the old lady, he’d grind the glass up with the fish.

A crunch delight.

Fuuuuuuccccck you.

Piss on the holidays.

They also reminded him of the family.

Piss on the family.

The holidays. They were supposed to inspire fear, but for him, all the prayers and shit were just simply … shit.

Last year on Yom Kippur, he woke up and ate a cheese sandwich.

Old God didn’t strike him dead like they said He would.

Then he jacked off.

God didn’t strike him dead.

Then he went out and drank a few beers, cussed with the guys, whistled at the chicks. Just hung out.

God didn’t strike him dead.

Then he had a pepperoni pizza for lunch.

God didn’t strike him dead.

Then he rented a porno video and whacked off again. Two times. Man, he was a stud.

God didn’t strike him dead.

Why should God strike him dead?

He was God.

Or something close.