Chapters (37)
- Cover
- Title Page
- Dedication
- The Truth of Thom Jones
- Selected Stories
- The Pugilist at Rest
- The Black Lights
- I Want to Live!
- Silhouettes
- Mosquitoes
- A White Horse
- Cold Snap
- Superman, My Son
- Way Down Deep in the Jungle
- Pickpocket
- Pot Shack
- I Need a Man to Love Me
- Sonny Liston Wasa Friend of Mine
- The Roadrunner
- A Run Through the Jungle
- 40, Still at Home
- Tarantula
- Mouses
- Daddy’s Girl
- New Stories
- Night Train
- Volcanoes from Hell
- A Merry Little Christmas
- All Along the Watchtower
- Diary of My Health
- The Junkman of Chengdu
- Bomb Shelter Noel
- Acknowledgments
- Credits
- About the Author
- Also by Thom Jones
- Thank you for buying this ebook, published by Hachette Digital.
Suddenly Matthew realized that he had understolen. An opportunity like this came once in a blue moon. He slid across the room and shook out another twenty tablets. The container held 200 count. Twelve and twenty—that was thirty-two total—hell, round it out to forty. At forty, the fluff-up job looked suspicious. Reluctantly he returned four tablets to the pill bottle, replaced the lid, and went back to the coffee station. He wondered if he had gone too far. His moves were mechanical and the word guilt was written all over him. He needed to get back into the Green Room. His coffee cup was three-quarters full when he made the switch-over to the pot. He quickly opened the fridge and poured some half-and-half into the cup and knocked down four of the morphine tablets. He needed morphine. His baby toe was throbbing like a bass drum. In a more humane society, pain would be treated in a less Calvinistic fashion. Jesus! He took the remaining pills back to his bedroom and hid them with the others. With his coffee he took two Xanax from his stash and swallowed them to accentuate the high that was about to come any time soon. He slugged the coffee down to dissolve the pills faster and then got on the Slumber King and assumed the position. It was like being at the opera or some gala affair awaiting the greatest production of pleasure life could deliver. Ensconced in the Slumber King, Matthew Billis, who had been so tormented by relentless depression, who had come to feel so bad that not even taking a shit felt good, and who was bereft of a single endorphin, waited for the buzz of a lifetime. It was a buzz with a wow factor of ten. He bore witness to a glorious lotus blossom of joy opening in his stomach that sent out radiant orange tidal waves of orgasmic ecstasy—waves that pulsed up through the base of his brain, to the roots of his hair, and back down his spine to his arms, legs, fingers, and heels. In every fiber and place of his being, Matthew felt bliss—bliss that he realized had been lying in wait all along. Oh! Whoa! Daddy!