crack, ashes scatter, “Fuck! I think I’ve got another caseof the clap.” He sways on the concrete bench and drinks outof his plastic canteen. The water smells like chlorine froma swimming pool. “This is the third time I’ve gotten it?You’d think I’d find just one whore who was clean enough tofuck. Just one. But no, I stick in my dick and out comes adisease. Why can’t I just stay away from them?”He rolls a tiny ball of hair between his fingertips.He has a bad habit of pulling hairs out of his moustacheand, with a small amount of spit, rolling the hairtogether. He leaves the little balls everywhere: on therims of chairs, beneath dinner trays, between teletypekeys, inside shirt pockets and underneath the shot glassesof bar-girl teas. He even left one underneath ColonelPearson’s glass desk cover, directly over a picture of thecolonel’s twin adolescent sons and a nine year old daughterwho looks like Pearson himself. In fact, they all lookalike. Pointed noses. An acre of foreheads. Beady, bulleteyes. All of them stand at attention in front of thecamera: the boys with white gloves and tightly creasedpants; the girl in a stiff, long-sleeved dress.“Shit, they’ll never get the clap,” Snuff says. “ I’dbet anything the fucking colonel shoves broom handles up
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