"Christopher Moore - Island of the Sequined Love Nun" - читать интересную книгу автора (Moore Christopher)

"Son, you don't know it, but you're as close to seeing the Lord as you've
ever been in your life. Now you hush before I send you to perdition."
She put on her best beatific smile and left the room radiating the power
of positive thinking.
Tucker pulled the covers over his head and reached for the flask Jake had
left. Perdition, huh? She made it sound bad. Must be in Oklahoma.


5

Our Lady of the Fishnet Stockings

The High Priestess of the Shark People ate Chee-tos and watched afternoon
talk shows over the satellite feed. She sat in a wicker emperor's chair. A red
patent leather pump dangled from one toe. Red lipstick, red nails, a big red
bow in her hair. But for a pair of silk seamed stockings, she was naked.
On the screen: Meadow Malackovitch, in a neck brace, sobbed on her
lawyer's shoulder--a snapshot of the pilot who had traumatized her was inset
in the upper-right-hand corner. The host, a failed weatherman who now made
seven figures mining trailer parks for atrocities, was reading the dubious
resume of Tucker Case. Shots of the pink jet, before and after. Stock footage
of Mary Jean on an airfield tarmac, followed by Case in a leather jacket.
The High Priestess touched herself lightly, leaving a faint orange stripe
of Chee-to spoor on her pubes (she was a natural blonde), then keyed the
intercom that connected her to the Sorcerer.
"What?" came the man's voice, weary but awake. It was 2:00 A.M. The
Sorcerer had been working all night.
"I think we've found our pilot," she said.
 6

Who's Flying This Life?

At the last minute Mary Jean changed her mind about sending Tucker Case
to her cabin in the mountains. "Put him in a motel room outside of town and
don't let him out until I say so."
In two weeks Tucker had seen only the nurse who came in to change his
bandages and the guard. Actually, the guard was a tackle, second-string
defense from SMU, six-foot-six, two hundred and seventy pounds of earnest
Christian naivete named Dusty Lemon.
Tucker was lying on the bed watching television. Dusty sat hunched over
the wood-grain Formica table reading Scripture.
Tucker said, "Dusty, why don't you go get us a six-pack and a pizza?"
Dusty didn't look up. Tuck could see the shine of his scalp through his
crew cut. A thick Texas drawl: "No, sir. I don't drink and Mrs. Jean said that
you wasn't to have no alcohol."
"It's not Mrs. Jean, you doofus. It's Mrs. Dobbins." After two weeks,
Dusty was beginning to get on Tuck's nerves.
"Just the same," Dusty said. "I can call for a pizza for you, but no
beer."
Tuck detected a blush through the crew cut. "Dusty?"