When he finally drifted into an uneasy sleep, he did so with a feeling of shame and unworthiness gnawing at his insides. A collage of jumbled images coalesced in his mind’s eye. He saw himself at the helm of Bucephalus [a tractor -Ed.] driving a terrified pack of naked and enslaved Bakerites across a plateau. He was bathed in an ethereal glow with a Winchester thrown over one shoulder and his steed roaring like a Howitzer. To all sides, the mob scurried before him in buck-naked profusion: beer-gutted deputies from the Sheriff’s department stumbling over fallen cleaning maids. Hairy-backed trolls bounding along in quivering rolls of free-swinging celluloid. Crones with bowls of dead goldfish scampering over the sick and dying, stopping only to rob them of their jewelry and lap at their wounds. Roy Mentzer on all fours being openly sodomized with garden tools by the chain-gang in suspension. The student body from Holborn bleeding from every orifice, crawling along on their hands and knees, being trampled underfoot, tearing and biting at one another, pulling hair, gouging eyes, all fleeing in an obscene bow-legged panic toward the edge of a cliff. And John driving them forward as the shepherd in residence. Bucephalus screaming, the Winchester pounding, bodies falling, the terrain being marred, and finally the whole convalescent lot of them being driven straight over the edge. And their bodies falling like feed sacks against the open sky before being impaled, pounded and blown to bits on the escarpment of jagged limestone columns below. And John plodding along on the ledge high above, the panoramic display of the open sea stretched out and cascading before him, the dead mob strewn along the beach having finally gotten its cue and gone silent.
Man alive, do I love this book. Steal, kill, and pillage to find a copy, folks. It’s good reading.