The Blob Read Online Free PDF Page A

caught Marshall and Clinco—at least not around these parts—but they did put Brian back in juvie hall for his summer vacation.
    It wasn’t like he didn’t expected it, though. Maintaining his hard veneer, Flagg had always cultivated the rougher crowd. If there ever had been a gang in Morgan City, Flagg had belonged to it. That it had been a play gang consisting only of a bunch of kids who liked to pretend to be tough meant nothing to the local authorities. Brian Flagg looked like a hood, therefore he was a hood, and like any potential troublemaker, he should be squashed—the earlier, the better.
    Flagg knew he shouldn’t complain too much. He had played the role, and at least it gave him an identity, one he liked a hell of a lot more than those white-bread sorts who were the general run of Morgan City youth. And it wasn’t like he didn’t have friends here, he thought as he headed toward the sign labeled MOSS ’ S REPAIR SHOP . There were some folks around who liked him. Moss Woolsey was a friend, and Brian knew he could count on Moss helping him get his wheels back on the road.
    Flagg sauntered across the street and went into the grimy cinder-block garage. Ah, the smell of old tires and oil, of gasoline and elbow grease—Flagg smiled at the familiar aroma. It was in this garage that, with the help of Moss, he had fine-tuned his mechanic skills. It was there that he had learned the heavy-duty, by-the-seat-of-your-pants mechanical stuff, like how to strip an old engine, clean it, put it back together with secondhand parts, and then stick it into a car shell it wasn’t designed for. As soon as he reached the legal age, Flagg fully intended to get into serious drag-car stuff. Right now, though, a motorcycle would have to do.
    As he strode in, Flagg saw Moss Woolsey bent over, wrenching away at the engine of a large Sno-Cat. On the Cat’s door was the logo INDIAN SUMMIT SKI RESORT .
    “Yo, Moss!” said Flagg. “Qué pasa, buddy! I see you fooled the resort people again. Make ’em think you can fix this thing. Way to go!”
    The muscular, middle-aged black man lifted his head and peered at Flagg. A thick, soggy cigar protruded from his mouth.
    “Yeah. It’s a ritual, ain’t it?” Moss said, surveying his visitor and reacting with a flinch. “Whew! You look like hell, man!”
    Flagg looked down at himself. He was dusty, disheveled, and still wet. He ran a hand through his usually well-cared-for hair and found that it was a mess as well. He struck a pose and said, “It’s a fashion statement.”
    Moss grunted. “The only statement them clothes got to make is ‘I look like hell.’ ”
    Flagg didn’t want to bother his friend while he was busy, so he made his pitch immediately. “My bike’s sitting out at Elkins Grove. Can I borrow your ratchet set?”
    Moss took the cigar from his mouth. When Moss took the cigar from his mouth, that meant he had something important to say. “You kiddin’ me? The Summit’s got me overhauling six fuckin’ Ski-doos, three Cats, and two flatbed snowmakers. By Monday!”
    Flagg shook his head and looked back out to the bright sunlight. “What’s the hurry? Must be ninety degrees out!”
    Moss chuckled. Apparently deciding it was time for a break, he strode over to one of the flatbed snowmakers he’d alluded to. There was a six-pack sticking out of a pile of manmade snow on the lip of the thing, and Moss took one of the bottles and tossed it to Flagg. He took another for himself, opened it, and took a pull.
    “Just Indian summer out there, boy.” Another pull, a shake of his cigar out toward the mountains. “Before you know it, winter’ll come tear-assin’ through this town with no apologies. Fall ain’t nothin’ but a rumor around these parts.”
    Using the edge of a steel locker, Flagg knocked the cap off his beer bottle. “C’mon, it barely pissed snow the last couple of years. The whole town’s ready to fold.”
    Moss looked troubled by that remark. “This