HE SHAKES HIS HEAD,
audibly popping a couple upper vertebrae, and gets back to writing.
"I, Spencer Sproul, wish to pour out my ardent admiration feelings. Upon your mutual heart, Mr. Manson, I pour out. I want to
fall into your tried-and-true arms, because...."
SPENCER
sees the library book jiggling on Ruth's breasts.
"...BECAUSE
no enormous number of DNA-gallons will ever prove you posthumously impotent. You were never proved pre-humously potent in the first place."
The teen dish washer, the fry cook and the mean waitress quietly gather behind Spencer. They read over his shoulder, glance back and forth at each other, whirl index fingers around their ears, and make coo-coo eyes.
OBLIVIOUS,
he continues to write.
"I find you, Mr. Manson, to be the greatest creative entity in the whole Roster of Talent. Especially your innovating advancement known as 'creepy-crawling'...."
Concentration is not one of Spencer's strong points. He's right back in Ruth's bedroom. A beam of dawn-light seeps through the drapes and wakes her halfway. A nipple slips out from under her nightie. Flustered, Spencer backs off.
"...the inspired 'creepy-crawling' technique of leaving the bedridden victimological sleepers untouched, all unwoken. But only rearranging their furniture pieces a bit...."
ON HIS WAY TO DISAPPEAR
through Ruth's window, Spencer steps in the kitty litter, accidentally "rearranging" this "furniture piece."
"...in order to 'freak them out,' as you so very sixtily say, when they wake up from their exposed slumberings...."
Ruth stumbles in, half-asleep. She stubs her toe on the kitty litter.
"...allowing them to thank their luckiness that you, invisible you, spared them this time a special sticky death. It is a master genius stroke, Mr. Manson, for being no stroke at all."
"...allowing them to thank their luckiness that you, invisible you, spared them this time a special sticky death. It is a master genius stroke, Mr. Manson, for being no stroke at all."