and crazy is crazy, what can I say? He started the summer of '59 out trying to carve his name on my friend's stomach because he wouldn't let him cheat off his test paper, it was an ass to head somersault downhill from there.
[There is an explosive ball of hate rioting in his gut. Richie spits and seethes at the phone, lets it go for several minutes. Fetches himself a snack. Puts on a record, one of the new ones dropped in his lap from some magical split in the sky, and throws back a shot of rye.
Yet he comes back. He can't say why, but he finds fingers clasping at the phone, pulling up the message, and letting the surge of anger bring high colour to his cheeks, the tips of his ears. It's obvious now, he was being led on, goaded, and he wants nothing more than for Byerly to regret fucking asking in the first place. He needs something stronger than a drink.]
i don't know, how many twelve year old boys can rip a kid's arm out of his socket so fast he dies from shock in the middle of the street?
[ Byerly, though, in his own strange way, isn't goading. It's a puzzle, and he's drawn to puzzles like a moth to flame. He's a man of many appetites - for wine, for sex, for finery, for recognition - but no appetite is stronger than his hunger for knowledge. Even knowledge about child murders that occurred more than a thousand years ago.
It takes him a few moments to respond, because he's wandered away from his phone. Once he sees there's a reply from Richie, though, he picks up again, answering: ]
A twelve year old driving a heavy vehicle, I suppose.
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the only uncertainty with sex I'm interested in is whether it can happen again and how soon
You're a strange one. Who did you shank? I know it wasn't Richars, more's the pity. Sounds like he and old Henry would have buddied up pretty good.
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What drove your Henry mad, anyway? Why did he come after you? Seems an odd thing.
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that's really fucking rude
and crazy is crazy, what can I say? He started the summer of '59 out trying to carve his name on my friend's stomach because he wouldn't let him cheat off his test paper, it was an ass to head somersault downhill from there.
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no. he got pinned for child murder.
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Someone you knew?
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How many children, exactly?
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am i interesting enough to fuck yet
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Why did they think it was poor monster Henry?
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but you're right, totally cocked that one up good didn't I? Let me make it up to you By-By, I promise I'll be sweet
[And later...as a most reluctant addendum.]
there was no one else to blame
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Yet he comes back. He can't say why, but he finds fingers clasping at the phone, pulling up the message, and letting the surge of anger bring high colour to his cheeks, the tips of his ears. It's obvious now, he was being led on, goaded, and he wants nothing more than for Byerly to regret fucking asking in the first place. He needs something stronger than a drink.]
i don't know, how many twelve year old boys can rip a kid's arm out of his socket so fast he dies from shock in the middle of the street?
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It takes him a few moments to respond, because he's wandered away from his phone. Once he sees there's a reply from Richie, though, he picks up again, answering: ]
A twelve year old driving a heavy vehicle, I suppose.
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Is your dick hard yet?
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I'm certainly not saying it's likely, but I assume there was more than simply discomfort with the method to go off of.
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