The prowling night minion, it’s just a few paces to my rear. I scoop out the picture of school kids I stole from that classroom. I glare at it and soon, my pet runs away. All chained up in the back of my mind.
I arrive home to find Saul's body holding its severed head to his stomach region. The stench from his desperate gnawing is probably vomit inducing and so, I’m fucking glad I can relinquish my newly attained senses just as easily as I can reclaim them. So yeah, the next thing I do with my Judas is wait for his awareness to be activated by his self-canabalism. Then I wrench the wankers arms off,
‘That should fuck up your masturbation schedule for a bit, eh pasty face?’
‘Oh man. What was Spiderfingers like? Was he really such an arsehole to you?’
‘You know about psychology?'
'Don’t act so surprised,' grunts Saul, 'I’m not as dumb as Steph’s had you know me mate. After a decent meal the Pleasure Principle, the collective unconscious and all of that, doesn't go over my head.'
I stroke my chin in an attempt to hide my grin. And then I have to voice a concern:
‘Now we're on the subject of gods and their psyche's, what about John Clay? Did I...ever…did Spiderfingers say what sad-luck story tore a hole in his heart?'
The Discordian just stares at me. He waits for me to continue, 'A rip so big, so gigantic, that only a god’s ego could hope to help plug it in..I mean, that's what led Boleraam to choose Clay as a host isn't it? He needed someone needy and egotistical and....'
I stop the talking.
Everything being said feels forced, somehow this conversation, it’s for the benefit of more than just myself and Saul. Even my thoughts...
Nope, I don’t give Saul any more satisfaction. I mumble a joke about his Sainsbury’s shelf-stacking future being well and truly over, and then I’m out, doing my lone wolf thing on the High-Road again. I feel so battered and bruised and I wish Nightingale was here to heal me.
That's when I remember my dream of confronting the evil Nightingale with Alice. The dream - if I can trust it - showed me how the real Nightingale is dead. I recollect how Saul thinks that she is still alive:
‘Aronson had everyone else carted a-a-away. Dad mum…e-e-e-everyb-b-body.’