The Sporting Club
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Two old friends strike up an old feud filled with dangerous games on the vast preserve of their hunting club in this rollicking story of boyhood rivalries pushed to the limit.
resorting to medication. He called Mary Beth on the interoffice phone. He told her that this was a place of business and that he wasn’t going to have another of her Halloweens. Therefore, get to work or get out. The inevitable enraged weeping began an instant later, directed, he knew, at the resonant heart of his door. He yelled, “I have my life to live, too, you know! Do you know that?” He got no answer. There was work to do. He was close enough to his success to be spurred on by amazement. The
overcoat and hat on a broomhandle into the space. These objects were not fired upon and Quinn went on his way home. He went directly through on the path, and around him the tree trunks stood like the ribs of a sunken ship, their spaces exaggerated by the clear moonlight. He stopped. He had no desire to return to his empty house. After the proximity of Janey, the steady sound of their voices still in his mind, the thought of the empty wooden building seemed depressing to the point of being
“The singing though.” “Give ’em the fucking singing.” “What about a couple of rockets, see, and then you have the singing coming right in there afterward.” “Get this: I don’t care. But whatever it is, make it snappy.” “Sure, okay. We have all the time in the world. Spengler burned his chronicle, you know. So, we’ll have more time for you.” Quinn approached. “What’d he burn his chronicle for?” “Come on,” Fortescue said, “get a move on.” “Said we don’t deserve it,” Stanton said impatiently.
have been the Bronze Age. On the other hand, maybe it would be exactly this that would constrain Stanton. Heretofore he had relied heavily on the expectations of others for his effects. And when he didn’t find them, he could become dangerously ill-humored. Quitting the only job he had ever had, for example, he had relieved himself in a potted plant in the crowded executives’ lounge. To his great amusement and gratification, many looked with horror at him over their coffee cups. Then his boss, in
heads. The belt of ammunition crept, then stopped. There was a long pause; Stanton crawled out of the hole, crazy and confused, and tried to operate the gun. Quinn walked over to him. It was the end. * * * The police, five of them, came up the main entrance the next day. Quinn, the only member there who saw nothing to hide or preserve, was cooperative. He answered all questions with an agreeable and efficient air. He watched the cops press around the photograph, making a blue shrine of