The Storm Giants by Pearce Hansen Read Free Book Online Page A

have to jump through their hoops. Don’t like attention this close to home, though.”
    “What’s to like about attention from strangers?” Rick asked , and then both the brothers stared at him, the good natured hick charm shedding from them like water from a pair of surfacing orcas. “You can wipe your own ass, brother in law. But you best not be dragging any of your big city shit up here to trouble our sweet little Kerri.”
    They thought they were double- teaming him, but there was nothing to say back to that one. When you’re right, you’re right.
    A Road Runner cartoon came on as Everett took his leave. The tiger striped couch creaked with strain as Norm plopped his ass down next Rick and they commenced uproarious laughter at the Coyote’s doomed scheming. The bong gurgled merrily behind Everett as he left to brave the gauntlet of the dog pack again.

Chapter 12 : Blood & Media
    T hat night Everett was watching the tube in the wee hours. Some cheesy ‘70s cop show, a real piece of TV Land crap. But he just couldn’t seem to turn it off, or surf to something closer to educational.
    Kerri was asleep, but Raymond had gotten up and tottered out to join Everett on the couch. He was accustomed to his father’s insomnias. Sometimes Everett wondered if Raymond didn’t come out to comfort his Father instead of the other way around.
    Raymond lay on his daddy’s broad chest, asleep. Everett could never sleep well at all, sometimes propelled from bed to patrol the house, the yard, or when back in the East Bay, the ‘hood.
    Kerri got full marks for putting up with his inability to relax. That kind of hyper vigilance must’ve been irksome for her at times.
    Th e TV crime drama he watched was lame; some kind of synthetic story arc erected by the Citizens to shield themselves from the howling chaos of reality and the cold winds of disillusion. It had nothing to do with Everett’s own experience, or reflect the street life at all. But maybe the Citizens could only handle reality if it was shrink wrapped, ‘sanitized for your protection.’
    The Hammer Stud ios were the only ones that portrayed violence at all well. Their fake blood was a red corn syrup that wouldn’t fool even a small child. But it was a fitting symbol for the crazy clown, evil funhouse mindset that overcame when large quantities of blood flowed.
    Blood wasn’t shy about spilling. It always meant something to somebody when people leaked.
    Everett remembered, as a 15 year old, discovering his business associate Chopper’s murdered body after he’d been killed in a drug rip-off:
    The door to Chopper’s hotel roo m was ajar. Everett took his straight razor out of his sock and held it knuckle duster style so he’d embed the blade into whatever he punched. He pushed the door inward with his knuckles so as not to leave fingerprints and stepped inside. Chopper lay on the floor with his head beaten in, a pool of blood soaking the cheap hotel carpet in a wide expanse around his ruined cranium.
    The hemoglobin had even sloshed up on the baseboards a little. Everett remembered being surprised at the time that there could be that much blood inside somebody, it being the first time Everett had seen that extensive of a bleed out. Chopper hadn’t died right after taking the blow; he’d drained for a bit before his heart stopped.
    But that was one constant : No matter how many times you saw, it was always instructional just how much of the red fluid the body contained.
    Bags o f blood, that’s what humans were. Also fear machines and pain generators. Raymond squirmed in his sleep, and Everett’s eyes were drawn to him.
    I n Chopper’s long ago hotel room the blood had already clotted to the consistency of pudding, and Chopper's eyes were glazed and empty.
    The overwhelming scent from that much blood got his instant attention. The hackneyed odor of copper or hot metal, along with whatever pain or terror induced pheromones were laden in the congealing mess that