. I think . The squeaky wheel quits its stupid rhythm and I stop moving. Then something happens which takes my mind completely off my nose. Until the gurney, zipped up snug inside a bodybag and listening to Mike (“Which one did they say?”) and Rusty (“Four, I think. Simon and Schuster, 2007 - Fiction - 464 pages. Shit. which is probably a mercy. Soft shoes squeaking on tile, and suddenly that sound is replaced by the sound of my driver, beating the bush for my goddam ball, where is it, it didn’t go too far in, I’m sure of it, so where is it, Jesus, I hate fourteen, supposedly there’s poison ivy, and with all this underbrush, there could easily be— And then something bit me, didn’t it? Still, you have to be strong to use them. What have I been doing? “They grow em big over on the west side. They can’t do this, I think. Today, however— “You lose, Petie-boy,” she says. I don’t think this is him.” There’s laughter at that, the female voice joining in (a little doubtfully), and as I am set down on what feels like a padded table, Rusty starts some new crack—he’s got a whole standup routine, it seems. Everything's Eventual offers a mixed bag of short stories, fourteen tales that range from the horrifying to the mundane, each of which includes commentary from the author. Hitting a ball off the tee. Learn how to enable JavaScript on your browser. He looks at me, eyes widening, mouth dropping open a little, and again I try desperately to hum, knowing he won’t hear it over “Start Me Up” but thinking that maybe, along with the burp, he’ll finally be ready to see what’s right in front of him— “Excuse yourself, Howie,” Dr. Arlen, that bitch, says from behind me, and chuckles. Letting him test-drive this baby. Chief among them are the oversized scissors. The Institute, Elevation, The Outsider, Sleeping Beauties (cowritten with his son Owen King), and the Bill Hodges trilogy: End of Watch, Finders Keepers, and Mr. Mercedes (an Edgar Award winner for Best Novel and an AT&T Audience Network original television series). It’s every bit as evocative as Everything’s Eventual. If I’m dead, why aren’t I either gone or in the white light they’re always talking about on Oprah? The table begins to slant, and I know why. They are on the verge of doing a postmortem on him—cutting him up while he’s still alive and screaming inside, in other words—when he produces one single tear to let them know he’s still alive. . “Commencing pericardial cut.” He slowly brings them down. “Stop it!” the lady doc snaps at him. Seeing it there makes this horror real in a way it wasn’t before. Maybe it is wearing off, but very soon now recovery will cease to be an option for me. what are you . They’ll have to suspect. “Man, this guy really could still be alive!” I hum frantically, and at the same moment Dr. Arlen drops something that sounds like a bedpan. Feel uncomfortable! Too gentle, maybe. She comes over, looks briefly down at me, then squeezes Pete’s shoulder. .” My teeth open and close at the rough urging of his hand; my tongue rises and falls like a dead dog riding the surface of an uneasy waterbed. . "Compelling.... Brilliantly creepy." What if I’m dead? He sounds alarmed, as if he expects Rusty and his boss to start duking it out right here. I can feel more air trickling down my throat and the idea occurs that whatever has happened to me may be starting to wear off . . WHOCK! . .” “Sure,” she says, and disappears from my field of vision. . Dear wheelchair Jesus on a chariot-driven crutch, something is happening. “Golf course? Pete: “Can I—” Dr. Cisco, actually sounding a bit maternal: “No. My head lolls back and for a moment I see Pete upside down, donning his own Plexi eyeshield as he stands by a steel counter, inventorying a horrifying array of tools. “Cutting,” he says, bending forward. Plenty of samples for the state lab in Augusta, should there be any questions raised by the autopsy. I was impotent unless she was wearing rubber gloves. If it finishes before they cut into me . . From someplace deep inside, where the brain stores the sort of trivia you only need if you happen to be playing Jeopardy! . He has just made the most hideous misdiagnosis of his life, but he doesn’t know it, and so he’s starting to warm up. It’s a Gigli saw. Their feet, squeaking toward the door. One of America’s great novelists (Lost Memory of Skin, 2011, etc.) . And mostly I will be. “Doesn’t he wish,” she says, laughing. I can smell onions on his breath, a little leftover lunchstink, and if I can smell onions, I must be breathing. How can I smell the bag I’m in? View more of Utah.gov's award-winning projects » » I can’t even hear myself. “Do you want to do the pericardial cut?” she asks. And if nothing else, that minuscule mosquito-whine of a sound has proved to myself that I’m alive, that I’m not just a spirit lingering inside the clay effigy of my own dead body. A sound I more or less live for. “Stones, then,” she says. Stroke im back to life?” She looks around, dazed, at first not sure of what he’s talking about . One of the flat tie-ribbons at the neck of his greens tunic tickles against my forehead. The record they were listening to was between selections, and for a moment I could hear her lecturely tones clearly. ), and I know his partner over there behind me, the Pollyanna of the medical community, isn’t thinking she’ll have to roll the tape back over this part of the exam. Awards. This guy could almost be alive, Katie . Their marriage, in 1469, was an initial step in the eventual creation of a unified Spain. He’s seen something! The tie, tickling across my forehead like a feather. The book was published in multiple languages including English, consists of 605 pages and is available in Paperback format. This time he flips me by himself, probably happy to use those gym-grown Mr. Strongboy muscles of his, hiding the snake-bites and the mosquito-bites all around them, camouflaging them. Dinky is recruited to kill very specific targets by e-mailing them his designs that he creates on an Apple computer. What if I suffocate like this? Mr. Sharpton tells Dinky that the people he is ordered to kill are wicked, horrible criminals, and that the world is better off without them. . The clank is followed by a sound that scares me badly: steel instruments clicking together. . But overall I liked the book. Dead lungs can just kind of . holy shit, doc, whatja tryin to do? The book was released by Scribner on 19 March 2002, and collected fourteen stories. That’s what people mean when they say someone “swallowed his tongue,” isn’t it? but the hands-on procedure is always best.” There is something vaguely suggestive in her tone. too what? “I’ve got Marty Stuart, Tony Bennett—” He makes a despairing sound. If he hadn’t just played through the foursome behind him, and if they hadn’t seen one of his legs stickin out of the puckerbrush, he’d be an ant-farm by now.” I hear that sound in my head again—WHOCK!—only this time it is followed by another, far less pleasant sound: the rustle of underbrush as I sweep it with the head of my driver. The state lab in Augusta, should there be any questions raised by autopsy... My blood-stream—the same toxin found to a bachelor bank clerk named Walter Kerr surely they won t. Men killed, one man—me—lucky shit, doc fact, that the scar on the eleventh.! 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