Winter 1949 – Clothed in a Humble Illusion of Mortality

 

Tull picked up the paperweight with one ungloved hand. He held it so that I could clearly see it despite the radiance emitted by his flesh. Slowly the globe began to soften. The glass melted. The molten liquid dripped across Tull’s palm. He merely smiled. 

He said, “I should be laying on a slab. I should be getting pumped full of formaldehyde. I was executed. I was pronounced dead at 4:15 yesterday afternoon. But here I am. I got Terrance this morning. I don’t have a problem going through you to get to Vallejo.”

I found myself wishing that I had not left my hammer back at the hotel.