sk.cujo-第18章

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o　that　of　Red　Razberry　Zingers。
Old　man　Sharp's　lawyers　had　lodged　a　multimilliondollar　damage　suit　against　the　dye　manufacturer；　a　case　that　would　probably　drag　on　for　three　years　and　then　be　settled　out　of　court。　No　matter；　the　suit　provided　a　forum　from　which　to　make　the　public　aware　that　the　fault　…　the　totally　temporary　fault；　the　pletely　harmless　fault　…　had　not　been　that　of　the　Sharp　pany。
Nonetheless；　Sharp　stock　had　tumbled　sharply　on　the　Big　Board。　It　had　since　made　up　less　than　half　the　original　drop。　The　cereals　themselves　had　shown　a　sudden　dip　in　sales　but　had　since　made　up　most　of　the　ground　that　had　been　lost　after　Zingers　showed　its　treacherous　red　face。　Sharp's
All…Grain　Blend；　in　fact；　was　doing　better　than　ever　before。
So　there　was　nothing　wrong　here；　right？
Wrong。　So　wrong。
The　Sharp　Cereal　Professor　was　what　was　wrong。　The　poor　guy　would　never　be　able　to　make　a　eback。　After　the　scare　e　the　laughs；　and　the　Professor；　with　his　sober　mien　and　his　schoolroom　surroundings；　had　been　literally　laughed　to　death。
George　Carlin；　in　his　nightclub　routine：　'Yeah；　it's　a　crazy　world。　Crazy　world。'　Carlin　bends　his　head　over　his　mike　for　a　moment；　meditating；　and　then　looks　up　again。　'The　Reagan　guys　are　doing　their　campaign　shit　on　TV；　right？　Russians　are　getting　ahead　of　us　in　the　arms　race。　The　Russians　are　turning　out　missiles　by　the　thousands；　right？　So　Jimmy　gets　on　TV　to　do　one　of　his　spots；　and　he　says；　〃My　fellow　Americans；　the　day　the　Russians　get　ahead　of　us　in　the　arms　race　will　be　the　day　the　youth　of　America　shits　red。‘
Big　laugh　from　the　audience。
'So　Ronnie　gets　on　the　phone　to　Jimmy；　and　he　says；　〃Mr。　President；　what　did　Amy　have　for　breakfast？〃'
A　gigantic　laugh　from　the　audience。　Carlin　pauses。　The　real　punchline　is　then　delivered　in　a　low；　insinuating　tone：
'Nooope　。。。　nothing　wrong　here。'
The　audience　roars　its　approval；　applauds　wildly。　Carlin　shakes　his　head　sadly。　'Red　shit；　man。　Wow。　Dig　on　it　awhile。'
That　was　the　problem。　George　Carlin　was　the　problem。　Bob　Hope　was　the　problem。　johnny　Carson　was　the　problem。　Steve　Martin　was　the　problem。　Every　barbershop　wit　in　America　was　the　problem。
And　then；　consider　this：　Sharp　stock　had　gone　down　nine　and　had　only　rebounded　four　and　a　quarter。　The　shareholders　were　going　to　be　hollering　for　somebody's　head。　Let's　see　。。。　whose　do　we　give　them？　Who　had　the　bright　idea　of　the　Sharp　Cereal　Professor　in　the　first　place？　How　about　those　guys　as　the　most　eligible？　Never　mind　the　fact　that　the　Professor　had　been　on　for　four　years　before　the　Zingers。　debacle。　Never　mind　the　fact　that　when　the　Sharp
Cereal　Professor　（and　his　cohorts　the　Cookie　Sharpshooter　and　George　and　Gracie）　had　e　on　the　scene；　Sharp　stock　had　been　three　and　a　quarter　points　lower　than　it　was　now。
Never　mind　all　that。　Mind　this　instead：　just　the　fact；　just　the　public　announcement　in　the　trades　that　Ad　Worx　had　lost　the　Sharp　account　…　just　that　would　probably　cause　shares　to　bob　up　another　point　and　a　half　to　two　points。　And　when　a　new　ad　campaign　actually　began；　investors　would　take　it　as　a　sign　that　the　old　woes　were　finally　behind　the　pany；　and　the　stock　might　creep　up　another　point。
Of　course；　Vic　thought；　stirring　Sweet　'n　Low　into　his　coffee；　that　was　only　theory。　And　even　if　the　theory　turned　out　to　be　true；　both　he　and　Roger　believed　that　a　short…run　gain　for　Sharp　would　be　more　than　offset　if　a　new　ad　campaign；　hastily　thrown　together　by　people　who　didn't　know　the　Sharp　pany　as　he　and　Roger　did；　or　the　petitive　cereal　market　in　general；　didn't　do　the　job。
And　suddenly　that　new　slant；　that　fresh　angle；　popped　into　his　mind。　It　came　unbidden　and　unexpected。　His　coffee　cup　paused　halfway　to　his　mouth　and　his　eyes　widened。　In　his　mind　he　saw　two　men　…　perhaps　him　and　Roger；　perhaps　old　man　Sharp　and　his　ageing　kid　…　filling　in　a　grave。　Their　spades　were　flying。　A　lantern　flickered　fitfully　in　the　windy　night。　Rain　was　drizzling　down。　These　corporate　sextons　threw　an　occasional　furtive　glance　behind　them。　It　was　a　burial　by　night；　a　covert　act　performed　in　the　darkness。　They　were　burying　the　Sharp　Cereal　Professor　in　secret；　and　that　was　wrong。
'Wrong；'　he　muttered　aloud。
Sure　it　was。　Because　if　they　buried　him　in　the　dead　of　night；　he　could　never　say　what　he　had　to　say：　that　he　was　sorry。
He　took　his　Pentel　pen　from　his　inner　coat　pocket；　took　a　napkin　from　the　holder；　and　wrote　swiftly　across　it：
The　Sharp　Cereal　Professor　needs　to　apologize。
He　looked　at　it。　The　letters　were　getting　larger；　fuzzing　as　the　ink　sank　into　the　napkin。　Below　that　first　sentence　he　added：
Decent　burial。
And　below　that：
DAYLIGHT　burial。
He　still　wasn't　sure　what　it　meant；　it　was　more　metaphor　than　sense；　but　that　was　how　his　best　ideas　came　to　him。　And　there　was　something　there。　He　felt　sure　of　it。
Cujo　lay　on　the　floor　of　the　garage；　in　semi…gloom。　It　was　hot　in　here　but　it　was　even　worse　outside　。　。　。　and　the　daylight　outside　was　too　bright。　It　never　had　been　before；　in　fact；　he　had　never　even　really　noticed　the　quality　of　the　light　before。　But　he　was　noticing　now。　Cujo's　head　hurt。　His　muscles　hurt。　The　bright　light　made　his　eyes　hurt。　He　was　hot。　And　his　muzzle　still　ached　where　he　had　been　scratched。
Ached　and　festered。
THE　MAN　was　gone　somewhere。　Not　long　after　he　left；　THE　Boy　and　THE　WOMAN　had　gone　somewhere；　leaving　him　alone。　THE　Boy　had　put　a　big　dish　of　food　out　for　Cujo；　and　Cujo　had　eaten　a　little　bit。　The　food　made　him　feel　worse　instead　of　better；　and　he　left　the　rest　of　it　alone。
Now　there　was　the　growl　of　a　truck　turning　into　the　driveway。　Cujo　got　up　and　went　to　the　barn　door；　knowing　already　it　was　a　stranger。　He　knew　the　sound　of　both　THE　MAN's　truck　and　the　family　car。　He　stood　in　the　doorway；　head　poking　out　into　the　bright　glare　that　hurt　his　eyes。　The　truck　backed　up　the　driveway　and　then　stopped。　Two　men　got　down　from　the　cab　and　came　around　to　the　back。　One　of　them　ran　up　the　truck's　sliding　back　door。　The　rattling；　banging　noise　hurt　Cujo's　ears。　He　whined　and　retreated　back　into　the　forting　gloom。
The　truck　was　from　Portland　Machine。　Three　hours　ago；　Charity　Camber　and　her　still…dazzled　son　had　gone　into　Portland　Machine's　main　office　on　Brighton　Avenue　and　she　had　written　a　personal　check　for　a　new　Jorgen　chainfall　wholesale　had　turned　out　to　be　exactly　1；241。71；　tax　included。　Before　going　to　Portland　Machine　she　had　gone　into　the　State　Liquor　Store　on　Congress　Street　to　fill　out　a　lottery　claim　form。　Brett；　forbidden　absolutely　to　e　inside　with　her；　stood　on　the　sidewalk　with　his　hands　in　his　pockets。
The　clerk　told　Charity　she　would　get　a　Lottery　mission　cheek　in　the　mail。　How　long？　Two　weeks　at　the　very　outside。　It　would　e　minus　a　deduction　of　roughly　eight　hundred　dollars　for　taxes。　This　sum　was　based　on　her　declaration　of　Joe's　yearly　ine。
The　deduction　for　taxes　before　the　fact　did　not　anger　Charity　at　all。　Up　until　the　moment　when　the　clerk　had　checked　her　number　against　his　sheet；　she　had　been　holding　her　breath；　still　unable　to　believe　this　had　really　happened　to　her。　Then　the　clerk　had　nodded；　congratulated　her。　None　of　that　mattered。　What　mattered　was　that　now　she　could　breathe　again；　and　the　ticket　was　no　longer　her　responsibility。　It　had　returned　to　the　bowels　of　the　Lottery　mission。　Her　Check　Would　Be　in　the　Mail　…　wonderful；　mystical；　talismanic　phrase。
And　still　she　felt　a　small　pang　as　she　watched　the　dog…eared　ticket；　limp　with　her　own　nervous　perspiration；　dipped　to　the　form　she　had　filled　out　and　then　stored　away。　Lady　Luck　had　singled　her　out。　For　the　first　time　in　her　life'　maybe　for　the　only　time；　that　heavy　muslin　drape　of　the　everyday　had　been　twitched　a　little；　showing　her　a　bright　and　shining　world　beyond。　She　was　a　practical　woman；　and　in　her　heart　she　knew　that　she　hated　her　husband　more　than　a　little；　and　feared　him　more　than　a　little；　but　that　they　would　grow　old　together；　and　he　would　die；　leaving　her　with　his　debts　and　…　this　she　would　not　admit　for　sure　even　in　her　secret　heart；　but　now　she　feared　it！　…　perhaps　with　his　spoilt　son。
If　her　name　had　been　plucked　from　the　big　drum　in　the　twice…yearly　Super　Drawing；　if　she　had　won　ten　times　the　five　thousand　dollars　she　had　won；　she　might　have　entertained　…notions　of　pus