“I was sure the voice coming out of my mouth was not my own. It was a savage sound, ripped out of the viscera, loud as cymbals clapped on the ears, degrading, eventually weak and plaintive, the descending tremolo like that of an animal with its leg in a steel trap. A redheaded, crew-cut, porcine man in a black Grateful Dead T-shirt, with white skin, a furrowed neck, and deep-set, lime green eyes, sat forward on a folding chair, pumping his chubby arms furiously on the handles of the generator. T...hen he stopped and stared at one of his palms. 'I got a blister on me hand,' he said. 'Ease it up, Will. You're gonna lose him again,' the man with the silver beard said. 'It ain't Will's fault. All the sod's got to do is flap 'is fouking 'ole for us,' the man at the generator said. 'Electricity's funny, Will. It settles in a place like water. Maybe it's his heart next,' the man with the beard said. Will Buchalter was shirtless, booted in hobnails. His upper torso tapered down inside his olive, military-style dungarees like the carved trunk of a hardwood tree.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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