Jack

           Hesatonthefloorofthepantrywithhislegsoutinfrontofhim,aboxofTriscuitcrackersbetweenthem,lookingatthedoor.Hewaseatingthecrackersonebyone,nottastingthem,onlyeatingthembecausehehadtoeatsomething.Whenhegotoutofhere,hewasgoingtoneedhisstrength.Allofit.

           Atthispreciseinstant,hethoughthehadneverfeltquitesomiserableinhisentirelife.Hismindandbodytogethermadeupalarge-writscriptureofpain.Hisheadachedterribly,thesickthrobofahangover.Theattendantsymptomswerethere,too:hismouthtastedlikeamanurerakehadtakenaswingthroughit,hisearsrung,hishearthadanextra-heavy,thuddingbeat,likeatom-tom.Inaddition,bothshouldersachedfiercelyfromthrowinghimselfagainstthedoorandhisthroatfeltrawandpeeledfromuselessshouting.Hehadcuthisrighthandonthedoorlatch.

           Andwhenhegotoutofhere,hewasgoingtokicksomeass.

           HemunchedtheTriscuitsonebyone,refusingtogiveintohiswretchedstomach,whichwantedtovomitupeverything.HethoughtoftheExcedrinsinhispocketanddecidedtowaituntilhisstomachhadquietedabit.Nosenseswallowingapainkillerifyouweregoingtothrowitrightbackup.Havetouseyourbrain.ThecelebratedJackTorrancebrain.Aren’tyouthefellowwhooncewasgoingtolivebyhiswits?JackTorrance,best-sellingauthor.JackTorrance,acclaimedplaywrightandwinneroftheNewYorkCriticsCircleAward.

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