Vernon God Little Read Online Free PDF

with vinegar. ‘Gh-
rrr
– I didn’t say that.’
    â€˜Then why should the American taxpayer bankroll you to detain him, on the first day of his probable lifelong trauma?’
    Other reporters move toward us down the street. Sweat brews on Gurie’s face. ‘That’ll be all for now, Mr Lesama.’
    â€˜Deputy, this is the public domain. God Himself can’t stop the camera.’
    â€˜I’m just afraid I don’t make the laws.’
    â€˜The child has broken laws?’
    â€˜Well, I don’t know.’
    â€˜You’ll detain him just in case?’
    â€˜Gh-
r
.’
    The frown on the sheriff’s wife is almost down to her tits. Which is way down. Ledesma sizes her up, his tongue lolls restless in his cheek. Gurie tries to shuffle away, but he swings the camera like a gun.
    â€˜Perhaps you’ll tell us the name of the sheriff who briefed you?’
    The way Georgette Porkorney talks you wouldn’t think she gave a shit about the ole sheriff. She gives one now, though. Her phone flies out of her bag in a shower of Kleenex.
    â€˜Bertram? Vaine’s on TV.’
    After a second, Gurie’s phone rings in her pocket. ‘Sheriff? No sir, I swear to God. Bandera Road? About two blocks from here. Dogs? Yes sir, right away.’
    Ledesma folds up his camera and watches Vaine shuffle to her car, defeated. Then, as a crack of thunder chases the last shine from the pumpjack, he turns to me and winks in slow-motion. It has to be slo-mo for how fucken fast it is. I try not to smile. Or drop a load the size of fucken Texas.
    â€˜You owe me a story,’ he mouths silently, pointing a short, puffy finger. I just nod, and follow my ole lady onto the porch with Leona, George, and Betty. She ushers them inside, then hangs back at the screen to see if ole Mrs Porter, childless Mrs Porter,out-of-the-spotlight Mrs Porter, is still watching from her doorway. She is, but she’s pretending not to. Kurt the dog’s watching, though. He don’t care to pretend.
    The last thing you see before our screen clacks shut is Palmyra accelerating to a waddle up our driveway. She passes Gurie, and jabs a finger at the stain around her badge.
    â€˜Uh-oh, Vaine – barbecue sauce.’
    In a black and white world, everything in my room is fucken evidence against me. A haze of socks and underwear riddled with secret dreams. My computer has history to wipe from the drive, like the amputee sex pictures I printed for ole Silas. He doesn’t have a computer, see. Silas is a sick ole puppy – don’t even go there, really. He trades stuff with us kids in return for pictures, if you know what I mean. I make a note to wipe the computer, or ‘Perform some Virtual Hygiene,’ as Mr Nuckles would say. My eyes crawl around the rest of the room. Last week’s laundry sits in a pile by my bed, Mom’s lingerie catalog is under it; I have to return it to her room. And hope like hell she never tries to open page 67 or 68. You know how it is. Then there’s my closet, with the Nike box in back. Inside are two joints, and two hits of LSD. Don’t get me wrong, I’m only holding them for Taylor Figueroa.
    Muddy light breaks through the gloom outside my window. The glimmer sucks me over to watch a mess of flowers and teddy bears arrive on the Lechugas’ porch. Now it looks like Princess Debbie’s place, or whoever the princess was who died. It’s all just in a pile, still wrapped. So you know the Lechugas paid for it. Nobody else sent flowers for Max, that’s the sadness of the thing. Pathetic, really.
    I’m studying this whole tragedy routine, in back of my jellified brain. The Lechugas have to send themselves teddy bears, for instance. Know why? Because Max was an asshole. Saw-teeth of damnation I feel just thinking it, waiting for fiery hounds to unleash mastications and puke my fucken soul to hell. But at thesame time, here’s me