"IT'S LIKE THEY'RE SAYING this master genius never should of been given a widened birth, that he's a fraudulency, that he couldn't--" Spencer chokes up. "--pop a chubby!"

HE RAISES HIS VOICE on that last phrase, disturbing Ruth a bit. When she stirs in bed, he holds the knife higher, remembering his murderous plans--just until she's settled back in.

Then he promptly gets reabsorbed into the book. He dog-ears pages. He clenches the butcher knife in his teeth or holds it between his knees, in order to free up both hands for ripping out illustrations and sticking them in his pockets.

By the first hint of dawn, Spencer has had enough. Despair falls on him, because he has lost one of his gods. He tosses the book back down on Ruth's breasts. As she purrs again with pleasure, he raises the knife, very high.