The Blob Read Online Free PDF

year’s gonna be different.”
    “Is that right?”
    “Take my word. You’re gonna wish your piece-of-shit excuse for a motorcycle was one of these sweet little rigs.” He patted the side of one of the Sno-Cats. It wasn’t a brand-new Sno-Cat by any means, but it had been kept polished; its big front skis looked good, and its fuselage was shiny and ready.
    “I’ll put on chains,” said Flagg. “What about the ratchets, Moss?”
    Moss shook his head and went back to work on the engine. Flagg had been afraid of this. He and Moss were still pals, but it was true that it was Flagg who was always asking the favors. And there was no question that Moss had not forgotten the joyride Brian took last month in a Porsche that Moss had been fixing in his shop, a ride taken totally without permission. The car came back with no dents, but Moss had been furious. “What if the sheriff had caught you, man!” he had yelled. “My ass would have been in the same crack as yours! That’s a thirty-five-thousand-dollar piece of machinery there, Brian! I coulda gotten into a shitload of trouble with the owner if you’d even scratched the thing!”
    Flagg didn’t blame Moss for being angry, but he really needed those ratchets now. The bike’s motor just needed some adjustments, some tightening—that’s all. It was an old thing that Flagg and Moss had put together themselves, and you couldn’t blame it if it konked out once in a while. Still, Flagg owed his friend. Maybe he could offer recompense.
    “Maybe if I put in some hours for you over the weekend,” he said, “it would lighten things up.”
    Moss sighed. “There’s twelve ratchets in that set. Twelve. They better all be there when I get it back.”
    Flagg grinned. He went over to the tool bench to where he knew the ratchet set was, and he gathered it up, rolling it into its cloth sleeve and sticking it into his jacket pocket.
    “Thanks, Moss,” he said. “I owe you one.”
    Moss grunted. “You owe me too damn many.”
    Flagg said good-bye and strode out, eager to fix his bike and wrap his legs around freedom again.

5
    I n the mountains, the light at dusk has a curious, otherworldly quality. It seems to bend around the slopes, filling valleys with soft shadows. It is a beautiful time of day, and tonight the sunset was especially beautiful.
    The Can Man, however, didn’t give a damn about sunsets—not tonight or any night. He was too busy. He had his job to attend to, and a workingman didn’t have time to stare at the mountains and watch the sun go down.
    It had been a good haul today, the Can Man thought as he picked through the batch in his canvas sack. There was a Budweiser can, a Miller draft can, and a Coors can—in fact, the very one that punk kid had tossed before he’d made the kamikaze motorcycle run into the gully. What was the guy’s name? the Can Man wondered, as he sorted the various brands. Oh, yeah, Flagg. Brian Flagg. Guy that came pokin’ around all the time when he was younger, trying to make conversation. Probably trying to learn the can trade, trying to dip into the Can Man’s business.
    Well, the punk wouldn’t steal any of his tricks of the trade; not from Jimmy Nick, the Can Man.
    Tricks like the one he was about to perform. The Can Man lifted his cracked work boot. Strapped to the bottom of the boot was the ancient rusty iron skillet the Can Man had imported from a junkyard in Denver when he came out here. In the waning twilight he studiously inspected the arrangement of the cans, making sure they were lined up just so.
    He aimed, then pushed down hard.
    Whomp! metal against metal, the skillet mashed down on the perfectly arranged cans, flattening them.
    The Can Man moved his foot and checked his handiwork. Yep, just right. Now on the old low stump, instead of three cans, there were three flat circles. They were easier to carry this way, and the boys down at the recycler center liked them this way. They liked them so much, in fact, that