Chapter 475:

The axe, anxious to do business, is now cutting down on his thigh, as if he was cutting logs. The yawning wound four to five inches deep revealed the philosopher's muscles, bones and marrow's shiny steak. With each movement, the clown will pull an axe to pull it out, and Quayd's body will jump like a puppet. Exaggerated scream. Quaid pleaded. Quaid giggled.
The clown heard nothing.
All he heard was the noise in his head: whistle, whistling, shouting, buzzing. He took refuge, there were no rational arguments, no threats, and would never attract him again. The blow in his heart is the law, and his blood is music.
How the deaf-mute boy dances, dances like a lazy man, and sees his tormentor spread out like a fish, his mental decline disappeared forever. How to spit! How does it pour and fountain!
The little clown smiled and saw such fun. He thought, there is a night of entertainment here. Axe will always be his friend, keen and wise. It can be cut, cross-cut, sliced ​​and amputated, but if they are cunning enough to survive for a long time, they can still keep this person alive.
Steve is very happy to be a lamb. They were resting all night, and all the music he might want sounded in his mind.
Quaid knew that facing the empty gaze of the clown turned into a world, the world was worse than fear. Worse than death itself.
There is pain and no hope of cure. Long after the soul begged the body to stop moving, life refused to end. Worst of all, the dream came true.
In September, coming from the depths of the ninth circle, came to the streets and squares of London. Even under the sweltering summer weather in India, was too cold to be warm. As always, it carefully planned the plan, the plan is as it is, and fragile. This time maybe more critical than usual, checking every last detail twice or three times to make sure it has a chance to win this vital game.
It never lacks a competitive spirit. In hundreds of years of history, it matched life and body, sometimes victory, sometimes defeat. After all, the bet is the basis for its progress. If there is no human competition, the impulse to bargain and bet may get into trouble because of the lack of citizens. Dancing, racing the dogs, playing the violin: all these are gaps. In all games, if you play enough wit, you may win one or two souls. This is why came to London on that brilliant blue day: take part in a game and win enough souls to keep them busy with the demise of another era.
Cameron tuned the radio. The narrator's voice suddenly appeared and disappeared, as if he was speaking from a Polish person and not from St. Paul's Cathedral. The game started for an hour and a half, but Cameron wanted to hear comments about the warm-up match, just to hear their opinion of his boy.
"...The atmosphere is electric... There are probably thousands along the way..."
The voice disappeared: cursing, and teasing with the dial, until impoliteness again appeared. "... Known as the annual game, what day is today! Really, Jim?"
"Of course, Mike-"
"That big man Jim Delaney is standing in the eye of the sky. He will race along this track and have a bird's eye view of us, Jim, won't he?"
"I will, Mike-"
I must say that on this wonderful September afternoon, they all looked as fresh as daisies. Can't ask for a better day, Jim, can you? "
Joel woke up from a nightmare.
"You'll be fine, stop worrying," Cameron told him.
But he was uncomfortable. He feels sick in his stomach. It's not the pre-match nerve; he is used to these and can cope with this feeling. Two fingers were thrown along the throat. This was the best treatment he found. Overcome it and finish. No, this is not a pre-match nerve or similar nerve. In the beginning, it became deeper, as if his intestines, to his center, to his source, were cooking.
Cameron had no sympathy.
He said: "This is a charity game, not the Olympics." "According to your age."
That is Cameron's technique. His soft voice was for coaxing, but he was bullied. Without this bullying, there would be no gold medals, no cheering crowds, and no girls to admire. One of the tabloids voted Joel as the most popular black face in England. It's great to be greeted as friends by someone he has never met. He likes this admiration, but it may be short-lived.
"They love you," Cameron said. "God knows why-they love you."
Then he laughed, his little cruel.
He said: "Son, you'll be fine." "Get out and run for your own life."
Now, in broad daylight, Joel looked at the rest of the field, feeling a little floating. Kinderman has stamina, but he has no mid-range finishing ability. Marathon technique is another skill entirely. In addition to his shortsightedness, he also wears glasses with steel rims, so thick that he looks like a frog. There is no danger there. He is very nice in the lobby, but it is not his distance either. He is a hurdler and also a sprinter. 400 meters is his limit, even then he was not happy. Voight, South Africa. Well, there is not much information about him. Obviously, a strong man can be judged by his appearance, and there is another person to watch out for, just in case he suddenly appears surprised. But the real problem with the game is. Joel has confronted Frank "The Flash" McCloud "\'for three times. Defeated him twice, won the runner-up, and moved back in pain once. Frankie Boy has some points to solve: especially the Olympic failure; He doesn't like to take silver. Frank is a person to watch. Charity competitions or non-charity competitions will play his best for the crowd and his pride. He was testing the starting line and his ears were almost pierced. No doubt, It's that person.
Joel grabbed Voight for a while and stared at him. unusual. Before the game, competitors rarely look at each other. This is one kind. The man's face was pale and his hairline was receding. He looks as early as his thirties, but his body is young and slender. Long legs, big hands. A body is out of proportion to his head. When their eyes met, Voight looked away. The thin chain around the neck caught the sunlight, and the cross of Jesus' crucifixion wore a shiny gold, gently swinging under his chin.
Joel also has his good luck charm. Tucked on the belt of his shorts is a bunch of his mother's hair, which she braided for him five years ago before participating in the competition for the first time. She returned to Barbados the following year and died there. Great grief: unforgettable loss. Without Cameron, he would collapse. Cameron watched the preparations on the steps of the cathedral; he planned to see the starting point, and then rode his bicycle around the back to catch up to the end. He arrived long before his competitors, and he could keep up with the progress of the game on the radio. He had a good day today. His boy is in good physical condition, no nausea or nausea, and the game is an ideal way to keep the lads competitive without being overworked. Of course, the journey is a long way across, along Fleet Street, past Temple Bar, into the sub-line, then through the corner of Trafalgar, and then along Whitehall to the Capitol. It can also be run on the apron. But it was a good experience for Joel, it will put a little pressure on him, which is very useful. This boy has a long-distance runner, Cameron knew. He has never been a sprinter, and he cannot adjust his pace accurately. He needs distance and time to find his pulse, settle down and work out his own tactics. The boy is born over 800 meters: his pace is a model of economy, his rhythm is almost perfect. But more is that he has courage. Courage won him the gold medal, and courage will bring him to the finish line again and again. This is what makes Joel unique. Various technical weirdos come and go, but without the courage to supplement these skills, they almost get nothing. It is worth taking an adventure until the pain blinds you. It is special, Cameron knows. He likes to think he has drunk a little.
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