It sounded like a recipe for a slap in the face.To my surprise though, Ellen broke in."Okay Steph. Ken will do it," she said to her, covering Stephanie'shand with her own.I looked at her, but realised they were just talking to each other.There was some more subtle message passing between them. And of course,I had to do whatever Ellen decided. Some small part of me protestedsharply at the way she had so casually passed over my wishes, withouteven seeming to consult me. The hurt was deep inside, somewhere in myguts, but while it hurt, it had no chance of making me actually protestabout this, much less actually stop it happening. As I felt thisfeeling inside me, a feeling I knew so well, it struck me that, oddly,it was the source of all my pleasure in this. As if some sort of gland,meant to stimulate pain, had somehow, in me, been trained to alsostimulate pleasure. Also. Not instead of, for it still hurt. It hurt alot. But that same feeling - had it a name? - was what I felt when Iwas. I was dirty and smelly and now I was also really really mad. I went up stairs to pack. She stood aside as I took yard long strides past her."Red!" she gasped, finally.I turned and snarled at her, "Tell good 'ole big dick that he's gonna have to get a job," I said.I don't think I had ever packed two bags as fast as I packed those two bags that morning. She tried to get me to talk while I was packing, while I was coming down the stairs, while I packed up the pickup truck; but I just brushed her off. I finally saw her begin to shed tears as I pulled out of the driveway. Tears of greed, I thought, not tears of grief. I smirked, I shoulda been a screen writer.I was at my usual spot at the Scoundrel when a friend came in. "Hey Red, how yuh doin', man. Aren't you working today? It's fucking Monday." he said, slapping me on the back."No, I took off. I got problems," I said.Granger and I talked the place closed that night. I think we'd each had about a hundred drinks. The barkeep, who was.
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