“’I don’t know, Bob,’ I said, ‘there’s a couple kinds of
laziness. The don’t-want-to-do-nothin’
and the stick-in-the-rut brand. You take
a job figuring you’ll just keep it a little while, and that while keeps
stretchin’ on and on and on. You need a
little more money before you can make a jump. You can’t quite make up your mind
about what you want to jump to. And then maybe you make a stab at it, you send
off a few letters, and the people want to know what experience you’ve had—what you’ve
been doin’. And probably they don’t even want to bother with you, and if they
do you’ve got to start right at the bottom, because you don’t know anything. So
you stay where you are, you just about got it, and you work pretty hard because
you know it. You ain’t young anymore and it’s all you’ve got.’”
Thompson, The Killer Inside Me, pg 129.
The autopsy report showed the lines of worry scrawled all
about his youth, a shadow index of all kinds of perplexity…and as he aged, in a
generalized sort of way, they seemed to coalesce and send rigors straight from
his forehead through to his sternum, shorting out what bit of heart he had
pickled because he needed to save face at the regular assembly of his peers he
secretly hated. Those men who stupidly listened to, and
accepted all of his spiteful, lying diatribes on just about anything current
events had to offer, to the extent that his belittling intelligence
trusted no one but the unknown experts he believed weren’t just toying with their
own ideas about nothing. Those
thoroughly practiced individuals from some region just East of L.A. who popularized such great notions
from bunkers in TV land, complete with historical histrionics reenacting parts
from grander stages when battles were fought and things that a man did were
real in the eyes of hedge fund managers.
With a bit of spunk and derring-do,
just about any man with good sense could glean private property from the hands
of Native extraterrestrials with plenty of good, clean land for the flagging.
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