Weaponized Read Online Free PDF Page A

lets out that huge laugh that devours all other sounds. “What I mean is, I’ve seen it before. Many people like you…”
    “Americans.”
    “Westerners in general. But mostly Americans.”
    Kyle nods.
    “They come here to get away from it all,” Armand says. “You know, take some time. Lose the city hustle. Get some sun. Well, many…many of them take it too far. They forget they brought their bodies with them on vacation. They act as if touching down on another continent relieves them of all responsibility. Whatever you’ve been doing…don’t do it anymore. Please.”
    “I appreciate your concern,” Kyle says. “I do. It’s the heat. Nothing more.”
    Armand points to the blue liquor. “Another?”
    “Not even if Jesus was pouring.”
    Armand grins, pours himself a round. “Suit yourself.” He tosses down the blue liquor with a full-body shudder and then wipes his lips with the back of his hand. “Your package is in my office.”
    “Right,” Kyle says. “Thanks.”
    He nods, and as he walks toward Armand’s office, he locks eyes again with Violet, who sits alone, sucking on a lime wedge.

7.
    A rmand’s office has a stained sign on the door that says PRIVÉ. Three different locks dot the cherry wood, and none of them work. Armand says the illusion of security is all one needs. If someone’s determined to break in, one lock—or three locks—isn’t going to stop him. He says it’s like the concept of the law: There is no law. There’s only regulated punishment. Law exists solely to inform people of what they can—and will—be punished for, not to actually stop them from committing crimes. In fact, Armand would continue, the law is a vile institution, because it goads you into breaking it, just so it can punish you properly.
    Kyle steps into the office, which is bare except for a metal desk holding spilled files and a potted plant. On the wall, there’s a calendar from a local restaurant featuring girls in scanty bikinis lounging on muscle cars.
    Kyle fishes his package out of the clutter on the desk and opens it. He gets all his packages shipped to Armand. His hotel isn’t particularly skilled at or concerned about protecting the mail from marauding children.
    He opens it up, and inside is a well-thumbed edition of Graham Greene’s Collected Short Stories. Kyle wasn’t much of a reader back in the States, but since arriving in Phnom Penh, he’s been searching out the poets of exile—Durrell, Hemingway, Duras, Conrad, and, of course, Greene.
    Kyle wonders if exile—either physical or mental—was what spurred all these authors to be so exceptionally prolific. Was each book a silent scream into the void with the hope a voice would answer and guide the author to a place to call home?
    Kyle slides the book back into the packaging, tucks it under his arm, walks back into the bar, and sees Armand has his drink waiting for him with a napkin laid over the rim. Kyle nods in thanks, and Armand returns only a quick nod; he’s occupied, talking to Violet. Armand would be the first to tell you that in the West, he’d have no shot fucking someone who looks like Violet, but—as he’s fond of pointing out to Kyle—people do really strange shit when they’re away from home.
    Kyle grabs his drink, sits down at a table close to the door so he can get a hint of a breeze, takes a swallow, and cracks some ice with the back of his teeth. For a moment, his eyes do a slow close. Not because he’s got any chance of sleeping; it’s pure reflex.
    His eyes are tired of being open.
    Almost as soon as they close, they’re brought back to bloodshot life.
    The beads are swaying. Someone’s crossed into the bar.

8.
    K yle registers the newcomer first as shadow, then as a cloud in the mirror behind the bar, then as shoulders, and finally as a man.
    Definitely Western and, Kyle figures, judging from the color of his skin, new in town. His face and hands are freshly burned, crustacean pink and red, and look