Deasy has framed pictures of racehorses in his office. Don’t think about it. Stop. Under the elfin riders the horses. Stop. Monsterous large burst their frames, riding gigantic and oh no I am shouting with the crowds and with Cranley. Place your bets, parimutuelly. No. That horse is racing, looking with his dot eye, wagering against me. He wears oranges. That orange scent of the meatfaced woman in front of us. I smell it! Oh god that horse. Looking at me! Its spearspike baited with men’s blood and guts and jousting aiming for me. Shock. Time split open, I feel it rebounding against me shock by shock. The joust of life. I am the frozen deathspew of the slain. A shout of spearspikes! What! What? When? Now, then. Oh God it stopped. It stopped. Oh thank God. My breath. I feel sick.