Lucifer's Hammer - Larry Niven [158]
The burnin' bird hung in the sky just like a friggin' sun.
It seared my friggin' eyelids shut, and when the job was done,
the friggin' bird flashed cross the sky just like a shootin' star.
I ran to tell the friggin' priest—he bummed my last cigar.
I told him of the miracle, he told me of the Rose,
I showed him bird crap in my hair, the bastard held his nose.
I went to see the bishop but the friggin' bishop said,
"Go home and sleep it off, you sod—and wash your friggin' head!"
No one answered his knock at the Millers' front door. The door stood slightly ajar. Harry called in, loudly, and there was still no answer. He smelled coffee.
He stood a moment, then fished out two letters and a copy of Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, pushed the door open and went inside, mail held like an ambassador's passport. He sang loudly:
Then I came upon a friggin' wake for a friggin' rotten swine,
by the name of Jock O'Leary and I touched his head with mine,
and old Jock sat up in his box and raised his friggin' head.
His wife took out a forty-four, and shot the bastard dead.
Again I touched his head with mine and brought him back to life.
His smiling face rolled on the floor, this time she used a knife.
And then she fell upon her knees, and started in to pray,
"It's forty years, O Lord," she said, "I've waited for this day."
He left the mail on the front-room table where he usually piled stuff on Trash Day, then wandered toward the kitchen, led by the smell of coffee. He continued to sing loudly, lest he be shot as an intruder.
So I walked the friggin' city 'mongst the friggin' halt and lame,
and every time I raised 'em up, they got knocked down again,
'cause the love of God comes down to man in a friggin' curious way,
but when a man is marked for love, that love is here to stay.
There was coffee! The gas stove was working, and there was a big pot of coffee on it, and three cups set out. Harry poured one full. He sang in triumph:
And this I know because I've got a friggin' curious sign;
for every time I wash my head, the water turns to wine!
And I gives it free to workin' blokes to brighten up their lives,
so they don't kick no dogs around, nor beat up on their wives.
He found a bowl of oranges, resisted temptation for a full ten seconds, then took one. He peeled it as he walked on through the kitchen to the back door, out into the orange groves behind. The Millers were natives. They'd know what was happening. And they had to be around somewhere.
'Cause there ain't no use to miracles like walkin' on the sea;
They crucified the Son of God, but they don't muck with me!
'Cause I leave the friggin' blind alone, the dyin' and the dead,
but every day at four o'clock, I wash my friggin' head!
"Ho, Harry!" a voice called. Somewhere to his right. Harry went through heavy mud and orange trees.
Jack Miller and his son Roy and daughter-in-law Cicelia were harvesting tomatoes in full panic. They'd spread a large tarp on the ground and were covering it with everything they could pick, ripe and half green. "They'll rot on the ground," Roy puffed. "Got to get them inside. Quick. Could sure use help."
Harry looked at his muddy boots, mailbag, sodden uniform. "You're not supposed to stay me," he said. "It's against government regulations … "
"Yeah. Say, Harry, what's going on out there?" Roy demanded.
"You don't know?" Harry was appalled.
"How could we? Phone's been out since yesterday afternoon. Power out. No TV. Can't get a damned thing—sorry, Cissy. Get nothing but static on the transistor radio. What's it like in town?"
"Haven't been to town," Harry confessed. "Truck's dead, couple miles toward the Gentry place. Since yesterday. Spent the night in the truck."
"Hmm." Roy stopped his frantic picking for a moment. "Cissy, better get in and get to canning. Just the ripe ones. Harry, I'll make you a deal. Breakfast, lunch,