“Two hundred thirty three million, three hundred thirty three thousand, three hundred thirty three dollars and thirty three cents ... a year?”“P...unds ... not dollars.”Mrs. Morris had money ... was money ... old money, of course she knew the day’s exchange. 1.78au a pound. Or ... the other conversion... 58 cents.“A year?”She flushed ... I recognised the symptoms ... took her arm ... and directed her halting steps to a chair. A sturdy chair. We made it.“Alice?”Alice had been watching. She was on. Why limit myself to those? She asked herself. There are plenty of other kinds of bastards: racists, homophobes, financial cheats, the Old Men of the Texas Legislature who passed laws that ... well that I don't like. Tempting, but no. Better limit myself to the bastards that everyone would dislike. The kinds that would get killed in prison. She nodded to herself.She hadn't really thought about it that much, but maybe she was a bastard by that definition. Nah. Avenging angel maybe. No, that was. Generic,bloody letters spelled out the title of Zombie Mansion. Other than afew simple zombie images splattered on the side, there were no otherdecorations to differentiate the game. A dull green light glowedbeneath the curtains into the gaming booth. What was it about this gamethat made these boys get sick but keep going into play?Another wave of cold flowed through Robert. The icy chill in his bonespointed towards Zombie Mansion like a compass. The wave passed andRobert exhaled, unaware he. That was where he truly belonged -- in the realm of the spirit.Escape. The thought had obsessed him for all the years of his childhood. Through long, hard winters of being a misfit, of taunting and torture by playmates and acquaintances. Through endless years of being misunderstood by adults and forced to live by rules that made no sense to him.He grew up and the dreams faded. College, a job, getting married, a home and a mortgage... The adult world had no place for those who were truly.
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