The plant - By Stephen King Page 0,29

eleven."

"Well what the hell," he said. "look for it, John. Maybe it's still around somewhere." And he went off into another wild run of cackles which only ended when he leaned over and puked nonchalantly on his own shoes.

He did it twice more on the way to his apartment building at 20th and Park Avenue South, leaning as far out the window as he could (which wasn't too far since it was one of those Plymouths where the rear windows will only roll down about halfway and there's a grim little yellow and black sign that says DO NOT FORCE THE WINDOW!) and just sort of blowing it into the slipstream and then settling back with that same nonchalant expression on his face. Our driver, a Nigerian or Somalian by his accent, was horrified. He pulled over to the curb and ordered us out. I was willing, but Roger sat tight.

"My friend," he said, "I would get out if I could walk. Since I cannot, you must convey us hence."

"I want you out my caib, good sah."

"So far I have done you the courtesy of vomiting out the window," Roger said with that same nonchalant and rather pleasant expression on his face. "It hasn't been easy because of the angle, but I have done it. I think in another few seconds I am going to vomit again. If you don't convey us hence, I am going to do it in your ashtray."

At Roger's building I assisted him into the lobby and saw him into the elevator with his apartment key in his hand. Then I wove my way back to the cab.

"You git annoder cab, mon," the driver said. "You just pay me and git annoder. I don't want to no mo convey you hence."

"It's just down to Soho," I said, "and I'll give you a hell of a tip. Also, I don't feel like puking." This was a bit of a lie, I'm afraid.

He took me, and from the look of my wallet the next day I did indeed give him a hell of a tip. And I actually managed to make it upstairs before throwing up. Although once I started I didn't stop for quite awhile.

I didn't go in the next day-it was all I could do to get out of bed. My head felt monstrous, bloated. I called in around three and got Bill Gelb, who told me Roger hadn't shown, either.

Since then I have done a lot of crying and have had mostly sleepless nights, but perhaps Roger wasn't so wrongthe only hours that I feel even halfway myself are the ones spent on the 9th floor at 490 Park. Riddley has just about had to sweep me out the door along with his red sawdust the last two nights. Maybe there is something to that old "he threw himself into his work" crap after all. Even this diary idea feels right... although it may only be the relief of finally being done with my dreadful pastoral novel.

Maybe I'll stay on after all. Onward and upward... if there is any upward left for me. Man, I still can't believe she's gone. And I still haven't lost hope that she may change her mind.

March 21, 1981 Mr. John "Poop-Shit" Kenton Zenith House Publishers, Home of the Pus-Bags 490 Kaka Avenue South New York, New York 10017

Dear Poop-Shit,

Did you think I had forgotten you? My plans for revenge will go forward no matter WHAT! happens to me! You and all your fellow "Pus-Bags" will soon feel the WRATH! of CARLOS!!

I have covened the powers of Hell,

Carlos Detweiller

In Transit, U. S. A.

PS-Smell anything "green" yet, Mr. Poop-Shit Kenton?

From John Kenton's diary. March 22, 1981

Had a letter from Carlos today. I laughed until I shrieked. Herb Porter came on the run, wanted to know if I was dying or what. I showed it to him. He read it and only frowned. He wanted to know what I was laughing about-didn't I take this Detweiller fellow seriously?

"Oh, I take him seriously... sort of," I said.

"Then why in hell are you laughing?"

"I guess I just must be a warped plank in the great floor of the universe," I said, and then went off into even madder gales of laughter.

Frowning so deeply now that the lines in his face had become crevasses, Herb laid the letter on the corner of my desk and then backed into the doorway, as if whatever I had might be catching. "I don't know why you're so weird