The Hound said it.
Cormac McCarthy was an awful writer.
The Hound and the Bear is a majority in any company. For charity's sake, let's say he was talentless, and no one had the heart to tell him. Critics lavish praise upon him because they lavish praise on anyone that irritate ordinary people.
Bear thinks he was a stylist. He made his own rules because he could, not because he had discovered a better punctuation or grammar. Stylists are fine if, as nature intended, they blow up and we are done with them. When their literary ashes, mixed with dead leaves and bits of bird nests are mucked out of the gutter and preserved for all time like your little darling's kindergarten pictures, then nature as been defeated.
Whenever nature has been defeated, you know what happens.
Mother Nature releases her favorites: the dogged hound and the eviscerating Bear. Here's the Bear's own contribution, although it has been a long time, and it was shunted directly down the incinerator chute in his 450 gm brain.
He could see the highway from where he was both ways. He was on a berm a good high one with a good view. It ran before three cabins each cabin in which was a woman who loved him. He could feel the bubo on the back of his neck like an alka seltzer boil blooming in the sun which was a quarter past. Noon he thought. Maybe a quarter til. He gazed at the sun until he was blind. He would have to shoot the Negroes by sound.
Where he was they could not see him either. The Negroes not the girls who loved him.
It had gotten that bad in what two weeks ago was the good part of town where the only Negro you saw wore a uniform of some sort and not a police one.
The bubo was joined by another right on the end of his nose so he would not get a clear shot anyway. Why did he drink those gin fizz. The size of a golf ball the white kind he could hear the thwack carry from the country club a quarter mile to his left.
In one of the cabins was Consuela bare legs splayed behind her cello. In the next Mitzi a math whiz drawing doodles with long yellow fingers and stubby bits of chalk she hoped would save the world but he knew different. He had to leave the knife of screeching fingernails bleeding him dry from the great vein in his neck.
Gin fizz had egg in them. He was allergic to eggs. Peanut butter too. But he ate the peanut butter sandwiches and drank the gin fizzes with eggs in them anyway. Why. He used the touch readout to consult the Stupidometer he could not see with blistered retinas. He figured as much. The now needle with no color made of iron was buried so far in stupid not a molecule of the gin fizz he had laid down his carbine to pick up could fit between the fixings.
Why drink another gin fizz.
Why another bubo on his buttock the right one at least.
Why not. It all made sense at last the gin fizzes the bubos the women the country club and the Negroes. He did not dislike them but it was their mutual nature to lay down with never a getting up. Sunday morning at Bedside Baptist forever.
It could be worse.
No it couldn't.
Because it made no difference although the prettiest of the girls she might have been 17 he told himself that because she was rich and had a rich daddy somewhere far from Negroes and Mexicans in Trumpland. If only he could get them all and the unborn baby but she was a pretty little thing and pretty did not last. Hell three bubos would last longer, outlast them all.
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