[The last entry, written a few days ago, can be found near the end of installment 7 before this continuation. Sorry for any confusion.]
Dunston suddenly jerks stiffly erect, his eyes wide hard about to burst as if he’s being addressed by an acrimonious deity. A dog’s face fills his field of vision, it’s a shih tzu’s face, its mouth is gaping and silent in a shaggy head that’s trembling not quite imperceptibly, it’s in a cage on a counter in a humanesociety lobby, Dunston has taken it there to have its wasted little life put to rest, the bland room is brightly lit, plastic fronds drape over the cage. The face screams voicelessly at him, Dunston hears something, or thinks he does, it stuns him like a taser, the dog knows it’s going to die, its face is square and bristly and the gaping mouth seems a rectangle protesting to him in a bodyfreezing silence through vocal cords that had stopped working months before, the jaw is as broad as the forehead, all straight lines and right angles this face, the nearly invisible brows mere horizontal slashes over rhomboidal eyes, eyes full of confusion like an iimpaled infant’s eyes, and then Dunston hears a real voice sees another face, this one belonging to a selfproclaimed poet-lyricist-studentathlete failing an anthropology course, one random nightmare following another, the face is ruddy and thick and full of blazing contempt I don’t need you to give me the textbooks I don’t need your charity I’ll buy them myself the face says, But you’ve failed four quizzes based on textbook content and you’re facing the midterm exam next week Dr. Maycroft says, which is half based on the textbook, how do you expect to do well on the midterm without studying the text? I’m not worried about it the face says, I’ll do alright, I’ll borrow the book. He crosses the room, hard and compact, poet-lyricist-studentathlete, his sneakers soundless on the hardwood floor, he turns flashes the EvilEye, head slightly down irises pupils dark and menacing under thick black brows trying aiming to kill the DeanofStudents, he closes the office door. Here says the DeanofStudents, you don’t close the door, he rushes past the poet-lyricist-studentathlete, reopens the door what’s the matter the poet-lyricist-studentathlete says, you scared of me? I’m not scared of you he meets the defiant eyes his body tense, his own eyes hard and sharp, it’s policy we don’t close doors when a student’s in the room, the youth moves to reclose it, Dr. Maycroft blocks the way, if you want to talk we keep the door open. And then he’s gone and the DeanofStudents watches him glide down the corridor, watches him slow down, stop, slowly turn, he sneers when the EvilEye bores in on him, Fuck you dead you motherfuck. The poet-lyricist-studentathlete’s voice is like a blast surging through the hallway, burning away the DeanofStudent’s sneer, Fuck you dead motherfucker. A second surge. It’s all over Dunston Maycroft thinks, but when he utters the thought aloud he hears szanshifrand slocur.