The Cormorant Read Online Free PDF Page A
Author: Chuck Wendig
such thing,” she says, lurching upright and into a standing position. “Let’s go get this over with.”
Out of the bedroom. Into the living room, which is also the foyer and the kitchen and the family room and occasionally someone’s bedroom. Taevon sits on the futon couch – when you’re half-broke everything comes in “futon,” as if “futon” is a lifestyle choice – and next to him sits Cherie, that little Korean fag-hag who clings to him like he’s the tree and she’s the koala. Miriam rolls her eyes so hard she’s afraid they might get lost in the back of her head.
“Miri,” Taevon says, calling her that nickname she hates with the garish light and stinking fury of a garbage fire. “This ain’t working out, girl.”
Cherie purses her lips. “You gotta go, ho.”
“I know how you die,” Miriam says. “I haven’t told you because it’s very embarrassing. But I’d be so happy to tell you now.”
The girl sticks her tongue between the V of her two fingers and waggles it. “Eat me, bitch. You pretend like you’re some kind of witch or some shit, but you just want attention.”
“Incurable gonorrhea,” Miriam chirps. “It’s a thing going around. Some high-octane STD that refuses any efforts to treat it. It’s going to be awful. It’ll feel like you’re pissing acid. Your fallopian tubes will swell up like microwaved hot dogs. You know what the worst is, though? Two words: rectal infection . Blech. Yucky. Your butthole–”
“Shut up, hooker!”
“–will look like a blown bike tire . Really, really sad. What a shame.”
It’s a lie. Cherie dies from lung cancer when she’s in her early seventies. But Miriam read about that super-gonorrhea, and gonorrhea sooner sounded better than lung cancer later.
And it makes the little brat mad. Because suddenly she’s up off the couch and reaching for Miriam with nails painted like video game characters – Pac-Man takes a particularly vicious swipe; must be his predilection toward ghosts – but Taevon is planting his hand against her chest and shoving her back onto the futon.
“Cherie, shut the fuck up for a minute. You ain’t in this conversation.”
Miriam focuses on Taevon. “I saved your life, man.”
“Yeah. I know.” But the way he says it, she can tell he doesn’t believe her. Or is unsure enough for it to matter.
“He was going to poison you.”
“That was a year ago. We let you live here ’cause of it. But you haven’t paid rent in what, the last three months?”
“Four.”
“You are not helping yourself.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“And then you be coming all up in here making all kinds of racket and clamor and yelling like you got the devil all up in your coochie.”
“The devil is not, for the record, all up in my coochie.”
His eyebrows – dyed daffodil gold like his hair against his dark skin – arch like the McDonald’s logo. “Well, that’s real good to know.”
“I’m not good at saying I’m sorry,” she says. “It physically pains me. I get a tightness right–” Her hand floats over her midsection. “Right here, like someone is pinching my ovaries with clothespins. But even though it hurts, I’ll still say: I’m sorry, Taevon. I’m really sorry. The psychic thing isn’t paying as well since winter came, and the last couple days, weeks, months–” I killed a guy the other night and it turns out I don’t feel good about it. “–have been a little weird.”
“I’m moving in,” Cherie blurts out. Like she’s trying to hold in a burp but she can’t. It just comes out of her. And she giggles afterward.
Taevon’s face freezes into a mortified didn’t-I-tell-you-to-shut-the-fuck-up-for-a-minute glare and he pins Cherie to the couch with it.
He turns, starts to say something–
Miriam waves him off.
“It’s fine. I’ll get my things together. Be out in a few hours.”
More like twenty minutes.
She doesn’t have a lot of stuff.
Taevon stands, opens his arms. “Can
Out of the bedroom. Into the living room, which is also the foyer and the kitchen and the family room and occasionally someone’s bedroom. Taevon sits on the futon couch – when you’re half-broke everything comes in “futon,” as if “futon” is a lifestyle choice – and next to him sits Cherie, that little Korean fag-hag who clings to him like he’s the tree and she’s the koala. Miriam rolls her eyes so hard she’s afraid they might get lost in the back of her head.
“Miri,” Taevon says, calling her that nickname she hates with the garish light and stinking fury of a garbage fire. “This ain’t working out, girl.”
Cherie purses her lips. “You gotta go, ho.”
“I know how you die,” Miriam says. “I haven’t told you because it’s very embarrassing. But I’d be so happy to tell you now.”
The girl sticks her tongue between the V of her two fingers and waggles it. “Eat me, bitch. You pretend like you’re some kind of witch or some shit, but you just want attention.”
“Incurable gonorrhea,” Miriam chirps. “It’s a thing going around. Some high-octane STD that refuses any efforts to treat it. It’s going to be awful. It’ll feel like you’re pissing acid. Your fallopian tubes will swell up like microwaved hot dogs. You know what the worst is, though? Two words: rectal infection . Blech. Yucky. Your butthole–”
“Shut up, hooker!”
“–will look like a blown bike tire . Really, really sad. What a shame.”
It’s a lie. Cherie dies from lung cancer when she’s in her early seventies. But Miriam read about that super-gonorrhea, and gonorrhea sooner sounded better than lung cancer later.
And it makes the little brat mad. Because suddenly she’s up off the couch and reaching for Miriam with nails painted like video game characters – Pac-Man takes a particularly vicious swipe; must be his predilection toward ghosts – but Taevon is planting his hand against her chest and shoving her back onto the futon.
“Cherie, shut the fuck up for a minute. You ain’t in this conversation.”
Miriam focuses on Taevon. “I saved your life, man.”
“Yeah. I know.” But the way he says it, she can tell he doesn’t believe her. Or is unsure enough for it to matter.
“He was going to poison you.”
“That was a year ago. We let you live here ’cause of it. But you haven’t paid rent in what, the last three months?”
“Four.”
“You are not helping yourself.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“And then you be coming all up in here making all kinds of racket and clamor and yelling like you got the devil all up in your coochie.”
“The devil is not, for the record, all up in my coochie.”
His eyebrows – dyed daffodil gold like his hair against his dark skin – arch like the McDonald’s logo. “Well, that’s real good to know.”
“I’m not good at saying I’m sorry,” she says. “It physically pains me. I get a tightness right–” Her hand floats over her midsection. “Right here, like someone is pinching my ovaries with clothespins. But even though it hurts, I’ll still say: I’m sorry, Taevon. I’m really sorry. The psychic thing isn’t paying as well since winter came, and the last couple days, weeks, months–” I killed a guy the other night and it turns out I don’t feel good about it. “–have been a little weird.”
“I’m moving in,” Cherie blurts out. Like she’s trying to hold in a burp but she can’t. It just comes out of her. And she giggles afterward.
Taevon’s face freezes into a mortified didn’t-I-tell-you-to-shut-the-fuck-up-for-a-minute glare and he pins Cherie to the couch with it.
He turns, starts to say something–
Miriam waves him off.
“It’s fine. I’ll get my things together. Be out in a few hours.”
More like twenty minutes.
She doesn’t have a lot of stuff.
Taevon stands, opens his arms. “Can