(no subject)
so, i'm at home for chirstmas. again, working at the fishery. the end.
now just for fun. a new techuiqe for spam email to get by the spam filter is to add a paragraph of random text. for some rason they are usually kinda-a-story-ish.
said Jason. But with that crowd down there I couldnt think of another. Remember the gatehouse and that wide path to the parking lot? ... Youd won. I was out of ammunition and you could have blown my head apart. Youre wrong, how many times have I told you? I couldnt have killed you. It was in your eyes; even though I wasnt able to see them clearly I knew what was there. Anger and confusion, but, above all, confusion. Thats never been a reason not to kill a man who tries to kill you. It is if you cant remember. The memory may be gone but not the fragments, not the-well, for me they were ... pulsating images. In and out, in and out, but there. Conklin looked up at Bourne, a sad grin on his face. The pulsating bit, he said. That was Mos term. You stole it. Probably, said Jason as both men in unison looked back at Marie and
hair, the grin of a professional momentarily freed of executive concerns so as to return to the world he knew best. We may even get along, said the DCI. And then, as if to drop the last vestige of his directorial image, he placed his pipe on the table, reached into his pocket for a pack of cigarettes, popped one up to his mouth and snapped his lighter as he began to write on the legal pad. To hell with the Bureau, he continued. Well use only our men and well check every one out under a fast microscope. Charles Casset, the lean, bright heir apparent of the CIAs directorship, sat back in his chair and sighed. Why do I have the idea that Im going to have to ride herd on both you gentlemen? Because youre an analyst at heart, Charlie, answered Holland. The object of controlled surveillance is to expose those who shadow
you please. *Epilogue* They walked along the moonlit beach, alternately touching and not touching, the embarrassment of intimacy intermittently intruding as if a world that had separated them had not let them escape its terrible orbit, constantly pulling them into its fiery nucleus. You carried a gun, said Marie softly. I had no idea you had one. I hate guns. So do I. Im not sure I knew I had one, either. It was just there. Reflex? Compulsion? Both, I guess. It didnt matter, I didnt use it. But you wanted to, didnt you? Again, Im not sure. If you and the children were threatened, of
Neuilly-sur-Seine- No, not actually. He cant be sure at the moment. He was sure at the Church of the Blessed Sacrament. How should I play it? How does the Chameleon think he should play it? The obvious would be to do nothing, answered Bourne, his eyes on the scene below. And he wouldnt accept that because his uncertainty is too strong. Hed say to himself, Hes better than that. I could blow him away with a rocket, so hes somewhere else. I think youre correct. Jason reached down and picked up the hand-held radio from the sill. He pressed the button and spoke. Johnny? Yes?
haltingly preceded him into the generals photograph-lined study. At the sight of the old soldiers corpse arched back in the chair behind the desk, the ugly gun still in his outstretched hand, and the horror beyond left by the blowing away of the back of his skull, the wife convulsed, falling to her knees as if she might vomit. The master sergeant grabbed her arm, holding her off the floor, his eyes dazed, fixed on the mutilated remains of General Norman Swayne. Crazy son of a bitch, whispered Flannagan, his voice strained and barely audible. Then standing motionless, the muscles of his jaw pulsating, he roared. You insane fuckin son of a bitch! What did you do it for-why? What do we do now? You call the police, Sergeant, answered Jason. What? yelled the aide, spinning around.
they really are worth a read.
now just for fun. a new techuiqe for spam email to get by the spam filter is to add a paragraph of random text. for some rason they are usually kinda-a-story-ish.
said Jason. But with that crowd down there I couldnt think of another. Remember the gatehouse and that wide path to the parking lot? ... Youd won. I was out of ammunition and you could have blown my head apart. Youre wrong, how many times have I told you? I couldnt have killed you. It was in your eyes; even though I wasnt able to see them clearly I knew what was there. Anger and confusion, but, above all, confusion. Thats never been a reason not to kill a man who tries to kill you. It is if you cant remember. The memory may be gone but not the fragments, not the-well, for me they were ... pulsating images. In and out, in and out, but there. Conklin looked up at Bourne, a sad grin on his face. The pulsating bit, he said. That was Mos term. You stole it. Probably, said Jason as both men in unison looked back at Marie and
hair, the grin of a professional momentarily freed of executive concerns so as to return to the world he knew best. We may even get along, said the DCI. And then, as if to drop the last vestige of his directorial image, he placed his pipe on the table, reached into his pocket for a pack of cigarettes, popped one up to his mouth and snapped his lighter as he began to write on the legal pad. To hell with the Bureau, he continued. Well use only our men and well check every one out under a fast microscope. Charles Casset, the lean, bright heir apparent of the CIAs directorship, sat back in his chair and sighed. Why do I have the idea that Im going to have to ride herd on both you gentlemen? Because youre an analyst at heart, Charlie, answered Holland. The object of controlled surveillance is to expose those who shadow
you please. *Epilogue* They walked along the moonlit beach, alternately touching and not touching, the embarrassment of intimacy intermittently intruding as if a world that had separated them had not let them escape its terrible orbit, constantly pulling them into its fiery nucleus. You carried a gun, said Marie softly. I had no idea you had one. I hate guns. So do I. Im not sure I knew I had one, either. It was just there. Reflex? Compulsion? Both, I guess. It didnt matter, I didnt use it. But you wanted to, didnt you? Again, Im not sure. If you and the children were threatened, of
Neuilly-sur-Seine- No, not actually. He cant be sure at the moment. He was sure at the Church of the Blessed Sacrament. How should I play it? How does the Chameleon think he should play it? The obvious would be to do nothing, answered Bourne, his eyes on the scene below. And he wouldnt accept that because his uncertainty is too strong. Hed say to himself, Hes better than that. I could blow him away with a rocket, so hes somewhere else. I think youre correct. Jason reached down and picked up the hand-held radio from the sill. He pressed the button and spoke. Johnny? Yes?
haltingly preceded him into the generals photograph-lined study. At the sight of the old soldiers corpse arched back in the chair behind the desk, the ugly gun still in his outstretched hand, and the horror beyond left by the blowing away of the back of his skull, the wife convulsed, falling to her knees as if she might vomit. The master sergeant grabbed her arm, holding her off the floor, his eyes dazed, fixed on the mutilated remains of General Norman Swayne. Crazy son of a bitch, whispered Flannagan, his voice strained and barely audible. Then standing motionless, the muscles of his jaw pulsating, he roared. You insane fuckin son of a bitch! What did you do it for-why? What do we do now? You call the police, Sergeant, answered Jason. What? yelled the aide, spinning around.
they really are worth a read.