It was like listening to a man shout inside a telephone booth. His voice carried, but it had a muffled, dead quality as it came from the reality of that world into the reality of this one. 'There you are, you little shithead' Morgan bellowed at him. It had been tied at the nape of his neck, Jack saw, but most of it had come loose. The hair of Sloat's Twinner was long, black, flapping, somehow dead-looking. His hair renewed itself, growing forward, first tinting the rondure of his skull, as if some invisible being were coloring Uncle Morgan's head, then covering it. As he came he did his own werewolf number, changing from Morgan Sloat, investor, land speculator, and sometime Hollywood agent, into Morgan of Orris, pretender to the throne of a dying Queen. Jack stood, paralyzed, as Sloat bulled his way through the hole between the two universes. He was coughing and staggering, seemingly no longer aware of where he was. Wolf struggled up again, his hair plastered against his face, his dazed eyes peering through a curtain of it like the eyes of an English sheepdog. That's it, he's gone, must be, let him go, get out of here. 'Wolf' Jack screamed, but thunder exploded across the blue sky again, drowning him out.īut the Queen's son died an infant, died, he. Gobbets of flesh began to rain down around Jack. Blood flew in a needle-spray of droplets. It struck one of the cow-sheep caught in the reedy muck on the other side of the stream and the unfortunate beast simply exploded, as if it had swallowed dynamite.
#Graffiti characters full#
The cry was low, gargling, full of water.īlue fire arched over Jack's shoulder, sizzling-it was like a deadly electric rainbow.
0 kommentar(er)
