Читать книгу Dead Writers in Rehab - Paul Bassett Davies - Страница 15

I don’t buy that devious horseshit about nobody else reading this, and you know it.

You people are depraved psychic vampires. Describe my feelings? Do you seriously still think that’s going to happen? I know what’s behind the feeble-minded psychobabble. The lost souls howling and drivelling as they back you up against a wall, crazed by the need to explain themselves, frothing at the mouth, eyes skittering spastically, convinced everything will be just fine if someone will only listen to them. A very gross tableau. Fuck it. The situation is deteriorating … menacing vibrations … a need to hunker down and regroup here. And no inclination to gouge out my own entrails so you can read the auguries … throw the dice …

I don’t know what kind of twisted game you’re playing, and I never bet against the house. But I’ve come up with a new angle, just to break the savage, unremitting tedium of all this weirdness, and I’ve devised a game of my own.

It’s pretty laid back … nothing ominous … no ante required, no dress code at the tables. I start the play by making a confession: I’ve been breaking the rules of this establishment. But you already know what I’m talking about. You want to make something of it? Hell, you’ve got my written confession right here. But if you try to use it as evidence against me … some kind of grim kangaroo court … it proves you’re reading this. I’ve flushed you out, and I win. And if you don’t bust me – well, maybe you’re not reading it. Or maybe you are, but you don’t have the balls to do anything about it. Either way it means I continue playing by my own rules – and I win again.

However, let’s keep things friendly and relaxed … maintain protocol … don’t give way to a shark ethic. We certainly don’t want this stand-off to get brutal. But however you look at it, I have all the leverage here.

Those are the kind of odds I like.