The Magic Christian
Terry Southern
Language: English
Pages: 148
ISBN: 0802134653
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
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Stand it!” before succumbing beneath the vicious peck and flurry, to lie in a sobbing tantrum on the canvas, striking his fists against the floor of the ring—more the bad loser than one would have expected. Tex tossed his head with smug feline contempt and allowed his hand to be raised in victory—while, at the touch, eyeing the ref in a questionable manner. Apparently a number of people found the spectacle so abhorrent that they actually blacked-out. IX “GINGER. . .” AGNES BEGAN lightly, “when.
Heaven!” cried Agnes. “He’s probably dead by now! How can you go on so about the man? Sometimes I wonder if you aren’t trying quite deliberately to upset me. . . .” Speaking of upsets though, Grand upset the equilibrium of a rather smart Madison Avenue advertising agency, Jonathan Reynolds, Ltd., by secretly buying it—en passant, so to speak—and putting in as president a pygmy. At that time it was rare for a man of this skin-pigmentation or stature (much the less both) to hold down a top-power.
Of the old guts onto the goddamn paper!” “Guy!” exclaimed Agnes, “really!” It was well known that Ginger Horton did write—wrote unceasingly—relentless torrents of a deeply introspective prose. “Sorry,” muttered Grand, sitting back again, “get a bit carried away sometimes, I expect.” “Feeling and passion!” agreed Ginger Horton in a shriek. “Of course most of the nasty little people around don’t feel a thing! Not a single thing!” “Interesting you should bring that up,” said Guy, reaching in his.
Ship’s-stores officer, the only food left aboard now was potatoes. Thus did the Christian roar over the sea, through fair weather and foul. Guy Grand was aboard of course, as a passenger, complaining bitterly, and in fact kept leading assault parties in an effort to find out, as he put it, “What the devil’s going on on the bridge!” But they were always driven back by a number of odd-looking men with guns and knives near the ladder. “Who the deuce are those chaps?” Grand would demand as he and.
Appeared. “Love some,” said Guy Grand, giving his aunts such a smile of fanatic brightness that they both squirmed a bit. He was in good spirits now after his trip—but soon enough, as the women could well attest, he would fall away from them, lapse into mystery behind his great gray Financial Times and Wall Street Journal for hours on end: distrait, they thought; never speaking, certainly; answering, yes—but most often in an odd and distant tone that told them nothing, nothing. “Guy . . .”.