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None of the christian louboutin sale or spoke. The other customers sat silently.
Finally the fry cook said, 'One flew over around sundown.'
'It wasn't going to Denver,' Juliana said. 'It was going west, to the Coast.'
By degrees, the two truck drivers reseated themselves. The older man mumbled, 'I always forget; they're a little yellow out here.'
The fry cook said. 'No Japs killed Jews, in the war or after. No Japs built ovens.'
'Too bad they didn't,' the older truck driver said. But, louboutin shoes sale his coffee cup, he resumed eating.
Yellow, Juliana thought. Yes, I suppose it's true. We love the Japs out here.
'Where are you staying?' she asked, speaking to the young truck driver, Joe. 'Overnight.'
'I don't know,' he answered. 'I just got out of the truck to come in here. I don't like this whole state. Maybe I'll sleep in the truck.'
'The Honey Bee Motel isn't too bad,' the fry cook said.
'Okay,' the young truck driver said. 'Maybe I'll stay there. If they don't mind me being Italian.' He had a definite accent, although he tried to hide it.
Watching him, Juliana thought, It's idealism that makes him that bitter. Asking too much out of life. Always moving on, restless and griped. I'm the same way; I couldn't stay on the West Coast and eventually I won't be
able to stand it here. Weren't the old-timers like that? But, she thought, now the frontier isn't here; it's the other planets.
She thought: He and I could sign up for one of those colonizing rocket ships. But the Germans would disbar him because of his skin and me because of my dark hair. Those pale skinny Nordic SS fairies in those training
castles in Bavaria. This guy - Joe whatever - hasn't even got the right expression on his face; he should have that cold but somehow enthusiastic look, as if he believed in nothing and yet somehow had absolute faith. Yes, that's how
they are. They're not idealists like Joe and me; they're cynics with utter faith. It's a sort of brain defect, like a lobotomy - that maiming those German psychiatrists do as a poor substitute for psychotherapy.
Their trouble, she decided, is with sex; they did something foul with it back in the 'thirties, and it has gotten worse. Hitler started it with his - what was she? His sister? Aunt? Niece? And his family was inbred already; his
mother and father were cousins. Marc jacobs sale all committing incest, going back to the original sin of lusting for their own mothers. That's why they, those elite SS fairies,
have that angelic simper, that blond babylike innocence; they're saving themselves for Mama. Or for each other.
And who is Mama for them? she wondered. The leader, Herr Bormann, who is supposed to be dying? Or - the Sick One.
Old Adolf, supposed to be in a sanitarium somewhere, living out his life of senile paresis. Syphilis of the brain, dating back to his poor days as a bum in Vienna. . . long black coat, dirty underwear, flophouses.
Obviously, it was God's sardonic vengeance, right out of some silent movie. That awful man struck down by an internal filth, the historic plague for man's wickedness.
And the horrible part was that the present-day German Empire was a product of that brain. First a political party, then a nation, then half the world. And the Nazis themselves had diagnosed it, identified it; that quack herbal
medicine man who had treated Hitler, that Dr. Morell who had dosed Hitler with a patent medicine called Dr. Koester's Antigas Pills - he had originally been a specialist in venereal disease. The entire world knew it, and yet the Leader's
gabble was still sacred, still Holy Writ. The christian louboutin sale a civilization by now, and, like evil spores, the blind blond Nazi queens were swishing out from Earth to the
other planets, spreading the contamination.
Finally the fry cook said, 'One flew over around sundown.'
'It wasn't going to Denver,' Juliana said. 'It was going west, to the Coast.'
By degrees, the two truck drivers reseated themselves. The older man mumbled, 'I always forget; they're a little yellow out here.'
The fry cook said. 'No Japs killed Jews, in the war or after. No Japs built ovens.'
'Too bad they didn't,' the older truck driver said. But, louboutin shoes sale his coffee cup, he resumed eating.
Yellow, Juliana thought. Yes, I suppose it's true. We love the Japs out here.
'Where are you staying?' she asked, speaking to the young truck driver, Joe. 'Overnight.'
'I don't know,' he answered. 'I just got out of the truck to come in here. I don't like this whole state. Maybe I'll sleep in the truck.'
'The Honey Bee Motel isn't too bad,' the fry cook said.
'Okay,' the young truck driver said. 'Maybe I'll stay there. If they don't mind me being Italian.' He had a definite accent, although he tried to hide it.
Watching him, Juliana thought, It's idealism that makes him that bitter. Asking too much out of life. Always moving on, restless and griped. I'm the same way; I couldn't stay on the West Coast and eventually I won't be
able to stand it here. Weren't the old-timers like that? But, she thought, now the frontier isn't here; it's the other planets.
She thought: He and I could sign up for one of those colonizing rocket ships. But the Germans would disbar him because of his skin and me because of my dark hair. Those pale skinny Nordic SS fairies in those training
castles in Bavaria. This guy - Joe whatever - hasn't even got the right expression on his face; he should have that cold but somehow enthusiastic look, as if he believed in nothing and yet somehow had absolute faith. Yes, that's how
they are. They're not idealists like Joe and me; they're cynics with utter faith. It's a sort of brain defect, like a lobotomy - that maiming those German psychiatrists do as a poor substitute for psychotherapy.
Their trouble, she decided, is with sex; they did something foul with it back in the 'thirties, and it has gotten worse. Hitler started it with his - what was she? His sister? Aunt? Niece? And his family was inbred already; his
mother and father were cousins. Marc jacobs sale all committing incest, going back to the original sin of lusting for their own mothers. That's why they, those elite SS fairies,
have that angelic simper, that blond babylike innocence; they're saving themselves for Mama. Or for each other.
And who is Mama for them? she wondered. The leader, Herr Bormann, who is supposed to be dying? Or - the Sick One.
Old Adolf, supposed to be in a sanitarium somewhere, living out his life of senile paresis. Syphilis of the brain, dating back to his poor days as a bum in Vienna. . . long black coat, dirty underwear, flophouses.
Obviously, it was God's sardonic vengeance, right out of some silent movie. That awful man struck down by an internal filth, the historic plague for man's wickedness.
And the horrible part was that the present-day German Empire was a product of that brain. First a political party, then a nation, then half the world. And the Nazis themselves had diagnosed it, identified it; that quack herbal
medicine man who had treated Hitler, that Dr. Morell who had dosed Hitler with a patent medicine called Dr. Koester's Antigas Pills - he had originally been a specialist in venereal disease. The entire world knew it, and yet the Leader's
gabble was still sacred, still Holy Writ. The christian louboutin sale a civilization by now, and, like evil spores, the blind blond Nazi queens were swishing out from Earth to the
other planets, spreading the contamination.
