Cujo by King Stephen 1947-

Author:King, Stephen, 1947-
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Horror tales, American
Publisher: New York : New American Library
Published: 1982-01-05T16:00:00+00:00

reminded them of themselves, in a way—struggling to make a go of it, to get up to that fabled corner and turn it. And, of course, Boston was good because it was an easier commute than New York.

In the last sixteen months, Image-Eye had taken off. Rob had been able to use the fact that his studio was doing the Sharp spots to land other business, and for the first time things had looked solid. In May, just before the cereal had hit the fan, he sent Vic and Roger a postcard showing a Boston T-bus going away. On the back were four lovely ladies, bent over to show their fannies, which were encased in designer jeans. Written on the back of the card, tabloid style, was this message: image-eye lands contract to do butts for boston buses; bills big bucks. Funny then. Not such a hoot now. Since the Zingers fiasco, two clients (including Cannes-Look Jeans) had canceled their arrangements with I-E, and if Ad Worx lost the Sharp account, Rob would lose other accounts in addition to Sharp. It had left him feeling angry and scared . . . emotions Vic understood perfectly.

They had been sitting and smoking in silence for almost five minutes when Roger said in a low voice, "It just makes me want to puke, Vic. I see that guy sitting on his desk and looking out at me like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, taking a big bite of that cereal with the runny dye in it and saying, 'Nope, nothing wrong here,' and I get sick to my stomach. Physically sick to my stomach. I'm glad the projectionist had to go. If I watched them one more time, I'd have to do it with an airsick bag in my lap."

He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray set into the arm of his chair. He did look ill; his face had a yellowish sheen that Vic didn't like at all. Call it shellshock, combat fatigue, whatever you wanted, but what you meant was scared shitless, backed into a rathole. It was looking into the dark and seeing something that was going to eat you up. ^ "I kept telling myself," Roger said, reaching for another cigarette, "that I'd see something. You know? Something. I couldn't believe it was as bad as it seemed: But the cumulative effect of those spots . . . it's like watching Jimmy Carter saying, 'I'll never lie to you.'" He took a drag from the new cigarette, grimaced, and stuffed it into the ashtray. "No wonder George Carl in and Steve Martin and fucking Saturday Night Live had a field day. That guy just looks so sanctimo-

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