"Farmer,.Philip.Jose.-.Wot06.-.Red.Orc's.Rage" - читать интересную книгу автора (Farmer Phillip Jose)

The psychiatrist rose, and he said, "On to other things, Jim. Excelsior! Ever upward and onward! Junior Wunier will give you the books, no charge. He'll also acquaint you with the rules and regulations. May you be safe from the curving carballoy claws of Klono, and may the Force be with you. See you later."
Jim left the room thinking that the doctor was really something. That reference to the Force. That was from Star Wars, and any kid in America would recognize it. But that bit about Klono. How many would know that Klono was a sort of spaceman's god, a deity with golden gills, brazen hooves, indium guts, and all that? Klono was the god whom spacefarers swore by in E. E. Smith's Lensman series.
Jim found Junior Wunier at the officer of the day's post near the elevators. Junior Wunier! What a name for parents to stick a kid with! Handicapped him from birth. As if he wasn't handicapped enough. The eighteen-year-old had hair like the Bride of Frankenstein's, a curved spine like the Hunchback of Notre Dame's, a dragging foot like Igor's, and a face like the Ugly Duchess's in the first Alice book. Besides the hump, he had a monkey on his back. He was a speed freak. Jim hoped that he had been caught before his brain had been burned out.
Worst of all was his tendency to drool.
And he, Jim Grimson, had thought he was born with two strikes against him.
Jim pitied the poor guy, but he couldn't stand him.
Wouldn't you know it? Junior Wunier had chosen Kickaha as his role model. Kickaha, the handsome, strong, quick, and ever-tricky hero. Whereas Jim would have thought that Wunier would pick Theotormon. That character was a Lord who had been captured by his father and whose body had been cruelly transformed in the laboratory into a monster with flippers and a hideous and bestial face.
Wunier went into the storeroom and brought out five paperbacks for Jim. "Read 'em and weep," he said.
Jim put the stack of Farmer's novels under his arm. Were they to be his salvation? Or were they like everything else, full of promises that turned out to be hot air?
Wunier led Jim to his room through halls that were, at this moment, empty. Everybody was in his own room, in the recreation room, or in private or group therapy. The long wide halls with their white walls and gray floors echoed their footsteps. Jim had been assigned, for the time being, to a one-person room, small and very hospital looking. The tiny closet was more than large enough, however. The only clothes Jim had were on his back, and these had been brought by his mother, who had gotten them from Mrs. Wyzak. Being Sam's, they fit him too tightly. The shoes were embarrassing, square-toed oxfords that Sam would have worn only if his mother had threatened to kill him if he didn't, which she probably had.
Junior Wunier pointed to a niche in the wall. "You can put the books there. Now, here's the rules and regulations."
He leaned against the wall. Holding the paper with both hands close to his face, he read it aloud. A spray of saliva moistened the paper.
Jim thought, Suffering succotash! This guy was another Sylvester the Cat.
He sat down in the only chair, a wooden one with a removable cushion. He wished he had a cigarette. His teeth ached slightly; his nerves were drawn as tightly as telephone cables; his temper badly needed tempering.
Wunier droned on as if he were a Buddhist monk chanting the Lotus Sutra. The patient had to keep his or her room neat and orderly. The patient had to take a shower every day, keep his nails clean, and so on. The patient could use only the telephone by the officer of the day's desk and must not tie it up for more than four minutes. Smoking was permitted only in the lounge. Graffiti was forbidden. Those patients caught with nonprescription drugs or booze or tearing off a piece (Wunier's words) would be subject to being kicked out on his or her ass.
"And when you jack off," he said, "don't do it in the showers or in the presence of anyone else."
"How about before a mirror?" Jim said. "Is the image another person?"
"From Sarcasmville," Wunier growled. "Just obey the rules, and you'll get along fine."
Wunier dragged his foot across to the wall and tore off a taped-up paper. Jim read the words on it before it went into the wastebasket.
DON'T BE AFREUD OF YOUR SHRINK.
Beneath the phrase was a Kilroy-was-here drawing.
"There's some wise guy puts this stuff up in all the rooms," Wunier said. "We call him the Scarlet Letterer. His ass'll be scarlet if we catch him."
Besides some framed prints that looked as if they came out of the Saturday Evening Post, the only thing hanging on the wall was a calendar.
Jim said, "How about the mantras? A lot of the rooms have them up on the walls."
"That's OK, part of the therapy. Some people need them to get into the World of Tiers." Wunier paused, then said, "You decided yet what character you'll choose?"
He obviously wanted to stay and talk. Poor guy must be lonely. But Jim didn't feel like sacrificing himself for someone who was the last person he wanted to talk with.
"No," Jim said. He was about to get up but then drew back into the chair. He pointed at the space below his bed.
"What's that?"
Wunier's eyes widened. He started to bend over to look under the bed, then changed his mind.
"What do you mean, 'What's that?' "
"It just moved. I thought it was just the shadows. But it's very dark, blacker than outer space. It looks like if you put your hand in it, the hand'd freeze off and float into the fourth dimension. Sort of spindle-shaped. About a foot long. Hey, it moved again!"
Wunier stared briefly at the bed and a longer time at Jim.
"I have to get going," he said. Attempting nonchalance, he added, "I leave you to entertain your guest." But he got out of the room as swiftly as he could.
Jim laughed loudly when he thought that Wunier would not hear him. The thing he had claimed to see was out of a novel by Philip Wylie -- he didn't remember the title -- but he didn't know if Wunier had really thought there was one under the bed or if he was scared that Jim was about to freak out.
However, he was, a minute later, in a mixed black and red mood. A sort of AC phase. Depression alternating with anger. The psychologists said that depression was anger turned against yourself. So, how could he, like a light flashing off and on, suffer from both states within a minute's time? Maybe he really was about to freak out.
IT'S DEPRESSING TO BE A MANIC.
He'd tape that to the rest-room wall. He'd show them that the damned elusive Scarlet Letterer wasn't the only one who could strike from the shadows.
He didn't even have clothes of his own. And he had no money. Strip a man or woman of his possessions and money, and you see a person who's lost his manhood or her womanhood. That person was no longer a person. Not unless he or she were a Hindu fakir or yogi, part of a culture that considered such people to be holy. Not in this world where clothes and money made the man, where the emperor was the only one who could go naked and still be a person.
He had nothing.
While sitting in the chair, staring at nothing, a nothing looking into a mirror, he felt the blackness recede. It was followed by red, red that surged into every cell of his body and mind.
But a man who was angry was a man who had something. Rage was a positive force even if it led to negative action. A poem he'd read a long time ago said -- how'd it go? couldn't remember it verbatim -- rage would work if reason wouldn't.
Gillman Sherwood, a fellow patient, stuck his head in the doorway. "Hey, Grimson! Group therapy in ten minutes!"
Jim nodded and got up from the chair.
He knew then what character he was going to choose to be.
Red Orc. A villainous Lord in the series, Kickaha's most dangerous enemy. One mean and angry Ess Oh Bee. He kicked ass because his own was red.



Chapter 4