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98 Jack Fritscher

“Sex?” Robert said. “Sure, why not? Sex must be one of the sav-
ing ways, but the way has to be right. Just right. Or else sex is just
like everyone says, the way to damnation.” He bored his stare hard
through Floyd’s thick glasses. “And guess what else?”
Floyd guessed what else was he had himself another one of
those religious sex nuts trying to break out of his shell. He wanted
to take a step back, but he was too proud to show Robert any fear;
he remembered Robert bragging that terror was the only thing most
people respected once it got their attention.
“Besides sex,” Robert said, “guess what else.”
“I can’t guess.”
“Damage.”
“Damage?”
“Just a little damage.”
“Why damage?” Floyd said. “What damage? What to? Who to?”
“To you,” Robert said. “To me. To everybody.”
“What kind of damage?”
“Big damages,” Robert said, “and little damages.”
“I could call the police.”
“By the time they got here, my razor blade could cut your face.
I could make you blind so you could go on TV. By the time they got
here, I could cut my throat. Slice right through my jugular. None
of it would make any difference to anybody but you. I don’t care. I
might die or I might go to jail, but you’d still be blind, trying to cut
hair and play your pianos.”
“I get the picture,” Floyd said.
“No,” Robert said. “I got the picture.” He held the photograph
up and out at arm’s length. “He’ll tell me what to do. In my life I
know life does damage to you.” He looked down at the swarming
men in the street. He had his looks. He had his car. He had his gun.
“So I figure I might as well inflict a little of the damage myself.”
“I never quite thought of life that way.”
“Well, you sure are the slow one. Everybody else thinks so.
Doesn’t that explain the evil that people do to themselves, smoking
and drinking and whoring and taking drugs and driving fast and
©Jack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights Reserved
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