Pool_2

Now Attila, when he was gone, he was gone. No isms to memorize. Nothing for the professors to jam down our philosophoseeking gullible gullets. Look at Hitler. What a turd. There are still dumb asses doing the Hitler walk, like Elvis impersonators, Hitler impersonators. They recite that stuff as if it means something. There are academics sorting through the writings of Charles Manson, for Christ sake. As if his words have meaning. Look at what he did, that sick fuck. WHAT HE DID." "Don't watch lips, watch feet," Mac quoted Nino, but Jake didn't seek the reference. It wasn't deep philosophy but rather basic basketball. Watch the feet. "Correct, little brother. Watch the power. Watch the movement. Don't sing odes to the sea when the water sucks out, haul ass. Read the power. What if Burt Bacharach," you could hear one of his songs from a car going by, "God forbid, suddenly acquired a standing army of thirty million men with nuclear capability. We'd have to off him. Fast. No questions asked. Bang. Dead." "Why, Jake?" "People are never who you think they are. Hell, they ain't who THEY think they are. You, little bro, you ain't who YOU think you are," sounding like a student conjugating Latin verbs. "And you, too, Jake." "Well, no. I'm me," but Jake, quickly went on, "That's too much power. Can't let power accumulate in a single set of hands. Even if his sorry bleached ass, excuse me - nothin personal - soulless music was tolerable, it ain't, but if it was - that power in and of itself becomes a threat. The pool can not be allowed to get too deep, dig?" "Sort of. That reminds me, have you been over to Charles Darling? Is it all dug up?"