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"
Hit
him
,
Percy
,
hit
him
!
"
Harry
screamed
,
struggling
to
his
feet
.
But
Percy
only
stood
there
,
hickory
baton
in
hand
,
eyes
as
wide
as
soup-plates
.
Here
was
the
chance
he
'd
been
looking
for
,
you
would
have
said
,
his
golden
opportunity
to
put
that
tallywhacker
of
his
to
good
use
,
and
he
was
too
scared
and
confused
to
do
it
.
This
was
n't
some
terrified
little
Frenchman
or
a
black
giant
who
hardly
seemed
to
be
in
his
own
body
;
this
was
a
whirling
devil
I
came
out
of
Wharton
's
cell
,
dropping
my
clipboard
and
pulling
my
.38
.
I
had
forgotten
the
infection
that
was
heating
up
my
middle
for
the
second
time
that
day
.
I
did
n't
doubt
the
story
the
others
told
of
Wharton
's
blank
face
and
dull
eyes
when
they
told
it
,
but
that
was
n't
the
Wharton
I
saw
.
What
I
saw
was
the
face
of
an
animal
--
not
an
intelligent
animal
,
but
one
filled
with
cunning
...
and
meanness
...
and
joy
.
Yes
.
He
was
doing
what
he
had
been
made
to
do
.
The
place
and
the
circumstances
did
n't
matter
.
The
other
thing
I
saw
was
Dean
Stanton
's
red
,
swelling
face
.
He
was
dying
in
front
of
my
eyes
.
Wharton
saw
the
gun
and
turned
Dean
toward
it
,
so
that
I
'd
almost
certainly
have
to
hit
one
to
hit
the
other
.
From
over
Dean
's
shoulder
,
one
blazing
blue
eye
dared
me
to
shoot
.
Looking
back
through
what
I
've
written
,
I
see
that
I
called
Georgia
Pines
,
where
I
now
live
,
a
nursing
home
.
The
folks
who
run
the
place
would
n't
be
very
happy
with
that
!
According
to
the
brochures
they
keep
in
the
lobby
and
send
out
to
prospective
clients
,
its
a
"
State-of-the-art
retirement
complex
for
the
elderly
.
"
It
even
has
a
Resource
Center
--
the
brochure
says
so
.
The
folks
who
have
to
live
here
(
the
brochure
does
n't
call
us
"
inmates
,
"
but
sometimes
I
do
)
just
call
it
the
TV
room
.
Folks
think
I
'm
stand-offy
because
I
do
n't
go
down
to
the
TV
room
much
in
the
day
,
but
it
's
the
programs
I
ca
n't
stand
,
not
the
folks
.
Oprah
,
Ricki
Lake
,
Carnie
Wilson
,
Rolanda
--
the
world
is
falling
down
around
our
ears
,
and
all
these
people
care
for
is
talking
about
fucking
to
women
in
short
skirts
and
men
with
their
shirts
hanging
open
.
Well
,
hell
--
judge
not
,
lest
ye
be
judged
,
the
Bible
says
,
so
I
'll
get
down
off
my
soapbox
.
It
's
just
that
if
I
wanted
to
spend
time
with
trailer
trash
,
I
'd
move
two
miles
down
to
the
Happy
Wheels
Motor
Court
,
where
the
police
cars
always
seem
to
be
headed
on
Friday
and
Saturday
nights
with
their
sirens
screaming
and
their
blue
lights
flashing
.
My
special
friend
,
Elaine
Connelly
,
feels
the
same
way
.
Elaine
is
eighty
,
tall
and
slim
,
still
erect
and
clear-eyed
,
very
intelligent
and
refined
.
She
walks
very
slowly
because
there
's
something
wrong
with
her
hips
,
and
I
know
that
the
arthritis
in
her
hands
gives
her
terrible
misery
,
but
she
has
a
beautiful
long
neck
--
a
swan
neck
,
almost
--
and
long
,
pretty
hair
that
falls
to
her
shoulders
when
she
lets
it
down
.
Best
of
all
,
she
does
n't
think
I
'm
peculiar
,
or
stand-offy
.
We
spend
a
lot
of
time
together
,
Elaine
and
I
.
If
I
had
n't
reached
such
a
grotesque
age
,
I
suppose
I
might
speak
of
her
as
my
ladyfriend
.
Still
,
having
a
special
friend
--
just
that
--
is
not
so
bad
,
and
in
some
ways
,
it
's
even
better
.
A
lot
of
the
problems
and
heartaches
that
go
with
being
boyfriend
and
girlfriend
have
simply
burned
out
of
us
.
And
although
I
know
that
no
one
under
the
age
of
,
say
,
fifty
would
believe
this
,
sometimes
the
embers
are
better
than
the
campfire
.
It
's
strange
,
but
it
's
true
.
So
I
do
n't
watch
TV
during
the
day
.
Sometimes
I
walk
;
sometimes
I
read
;
mostly
what
I
've
been
doing
for
the
last
month
or
so
is
writing
this
memoir
among
the
plants
in
the
solarium
.
I
think
there
's
more
oxygen
in
that
room
,
and
it
helps
the
old
memory
.
It
beats
the
hell
out
of
Geraldo
Rivera
,
I
can
tell
you
that
.
But
when
I
ca
n't
sleep
,
I
sometimes
creep
downstairs
and
put
on
the
television
.
There
's
no
Home
Box
Office
or
anything
at
Georgia
Pines
--
I
guess
that
's
a
resource
just
a
wee
bit
too
expensive
for
our
Resource
Center
--
but
we
have
the
basic
cable
services
,
and
that
means
we
have
the
American
Movie
Channel
.
That
's
the
one
(
just
in
case
you
do
n't
have
the
basic
cable
services
yourself
)
where
most
of
the
films
are
in
black
and
white
and
none
of
the
women
take
their
clothes
off
.
For
an
old
fart
like
me
,
that
's
sort
of
soothing
.
There
have
been
a
good
many
nights
when
I
've
slipped
right
off
to
sleep
on
the
ugly
green
sofa
in
front
of
the
TV
while
Francis
the
Talking
Mule
once
more
pulls
Donald
O'Connor
's
skillet
out
of
the
fire
,
or
John
Wayne
cleans
up
Dodge
,
or
Jimmy
Cagney
calls
someone
a
dirty
rat
and
then
pulls
a
gun
.
Some
of
them
are
movies
I
saw
with
my
wife
,
Janice
(
not
just
my
ladyfriend
but
my
best
friend
)
,
and
they
calm
me
.
The
clothes
they
wear
,
the
way
they
walk
and
talk
,
even
the
music
on
the
soundtrack
--
all
those
things
calm
me
.
They
remind
me
,
I
suppose
,
of
when
I
was
a
man
still
walking
on
the
skin
of
the
world
,
instead
of
a
moth-eaten
relic
mouldering
away
in
an
old
folks
"
home
where
many
of
the
residents
wear
diapers
and
rubber
pants
.
There
was
nothing
soothing
about
what
I
saw
this
morning
,
though
.
Nothing
at
all
.
