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  1. Full text of "Neuropolitics"
  2. Roper Doper : Dope dealers you can run but you cannot Hide by Joe Dene (2010, Paperback)
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Open Web Book Archive. DMCA Contact. Salgado, Herrera A. Murphy, Richard Rand, James A. Ganz, Brian T. Leonard Koren lives in San Kohl Here are more than easy and openended art activities that utilize recycled and natural materials.

Full text of "Neuropolitics"

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What was the name of his aunt?

Roper Doper : Dope dealers you can run but you cannot Hide by Joe Dene (2010, Paperback)

Althea Burnside. What were her address and telephone number? Did his aunt have a job of any kind?

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Yes, she was a full-time jackass asswipe. But she had permitted him to live in her house? Permitted what? Had his aunt ordered him out of her house? Who are you talking about, you jackass asshole? The admitting M. The telephone company reported no listing for a person of that name in Blair, nor was she listed in Ettrick, Cochrane, Fountain, Sparta, Onalaska, Arden, La Riviere, or any other of the towns and cities within a fifty-mile radius. Of the two Altheas that popped up out of the system, one owned a diner in Butternut, far to the north of the state, and the other was a black woman who worked in a Milwaukee day-care center.

Neither had any connection to the man in La Riviere General. Althea seemed not to exist. Six weeks later, a bed opened up in a ward at the state hospital. When the state hospital called, Chipper announced that in the spirit of civic duty he would be happy to continue Mr. The old fellow had just become his favorite patient. Without putting Chipper through any of the usual shenanigans, Burny had doubled his contribution to the income stream.

If he was faking, he gave a brilliant performance. Down he went, through the descending way stations of incontinence, incoherence, frequent outbursts of anger, loss of memory, loss of the ability to feed himself, loss of personality. He dwindled into infancy, then into vacuity, and spent his days strapped into a wheelchair. Chipper mourned the inevitable loss of a uniquely cooperative patient.

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Then, in the summer of the year before these events, the amazing resuscitation occurred. He wanted to feed himself, he wanted to exercise his legs, to stagger around and reacquaint himself with his surroundings. Within a week, he was using English words to insist on wearing his own clothes and going to the bathroom by himself. He put on weight, gained strength, once again became a nuisance. Burny is like a man who went to Lourdes and experienced a cure but left before it was complete. For Chipper, a miracle is a miracle. As long as the old creep stays alive, who cares if he is wandering the grounds or drooping against the restraining strap in his wheelchair?

We move closer. We try to ignore the stench.

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  • We want to see what we can glean from the face of this curious fellow. It was never a pretty face, and now the skin is gray and the cheeks are sunken potholes. The rubbery-looking nose hooks slightly to the right, which adds to the impression of slyness and concealment. The wormy lips curl in a disquieting smile—the smile of an arsonist contemplating a burning building—that may after all be merely a grimace. Here is a true American loner, an internal vagrant, a creature of shabby rooms and cheap diners, of aimless journeys resentfully taken, a collector of wounds and injuries lovingly fingered and refingered.

    Here is a spy with no cause higher than himself. The human soul contains an infinity of rooms, after all, some of them vast, some no bigger than a broom closet, some locked, some few imbued with a radiant light. We bow closer to the veiny scalp, the wandering nose, the wire-brush eyebrows; we lean deeper into the stink to examine those interesting eyes. They are like black neon; they glitter like moonlight on a sodden riverbank.

    All in all, they look unsettlingly gleeful, but not particularly human. Not much help here. What is he saying? Ah, zee de engynes, yezz, oh dose beeyoodiful beeyoodiful engynes, whad a zight, the beeyoodiful engynes againzt de vire, how they churrn, how dey churrn and burrn. I zee a hole, yez yez dere id iz oho zo brighd around de etches zo folded back.

    Carl Bierstone may be reporting in, but his babble is not of much help. Aroused, too, as we observe from the shape beneath the sheet.


    The view hardly measures up to Ms. Head slightly elevated upon a pillow, Charles Burnside looks raptly out over a brief expanse of lawn to a row of maple trees at the beginning of an extensive woods. Farther back tower the great, leafy heads of oaks. A few birch trunks shine candlelike in the inner darkness. From the height of the oaks and the variety of the trees, we know that we are regarding a remnant of the great climax forest that once blanketed this entire part of the country. Beneath its green canopy, time and serenity embrace bloodshed and death; violence roils on unseen, constantly, absorbed into every aspect of a hushed landscape that never pauses but moves with glacial lack of haste.

    The spangled, yielding floor covers millions of scattered bones in layer upon layer; all that grows and thrives here thrives on rot. Worlds within worlds churn, and great, systematic universes hum side by side, each ignorantly bringing abundance and catastrophe upon its unguessed-at neighbors. Does Burny contemplate these woods, is he enlivened by what he sees in them?

    Burny whispers, Fogzes down fogzhulls, radz in radhulls, hyenaz over embdy stomachs wail, oho aha dis iz mozt-mozt gladzome my frenz, more an more de liddle wunz drudge drudge drudge oho on bledding foodzies. Let us seek the fresh air and fly north, over the woods. Hyenas are always hungry anyhow.

    No one feels sorry for them, either. Out we go, right through the roof. The woods continue for another hundred yards or so, then yield to a thirty-year-old housing development consisting of two streets. Basketball hoops, backyard swing sets, tricycles, bicycles, and vehicles by Fisher-Price clutter the driveways of the modest houses on Schubert and Gale. More a lane than an actual road, its air of privacy seems at odds with its apparent uselessness. The lane loops off into the woods and, three-fourths of a mile later, comes to an end. What is its point, what is it for?

    From our height above the earth, the track resembles a faint line sketched by a No. Trees had to be cut and cleared, stumps to be pried from the ground. If one man did it, the work would have taken months of sweaty, muscle-straining labor. The result of all that inhuman effort has the remarkable property of concealing itself, of evading the eye, so that it fades away if attention wanders, and must be located again. Having noticed the sign, we look again at the end of the lane. In the darkness under the trees down there, one area seems murkier than the rest.

    Even as it shrinks back into the gloom, this area possesses an unnatural solidity that distinguishes it from the surrounding trees. It seems that featureless. When we reach the midpoint in the curve of the lane, a triangular section of darkness all but obscured by the treetops abruptly defines itself as a peaked roof. Not until we are nearly upon it does the entire structure move into definition as a three-story wooden house, oddly shambling in structure, with a sagging front porch. This house has clearly stood empty for a long time, and after taking in its eccentricity, the first thing we notice is its inhospitability to new tenants.

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    The peaked roof covers only the central section. To the left, a two-story extension retreats back into the woods. On the right, the building sprouts additions like outsized sheds, more like growths than afterthoughts.