Michael Malone - Weebly

Lance was soon to be overthrown.
His less handsome, more methodical twin, Arthur,
had never gotten through to him at his Forest Hills
motel; Lance, when not on the courts, was out courting
in sporty bars. Actually, Arthur had rarely in their thirtytwo
years (thirty-one ex utero) gotten through to his
twin brother. So this time, as had always been his habit
in the past, he left a message. Like "Get your junk out
of my closet!"
"Return my pullover!"
"You owe me ten dollars!" this one was
exclamatory and might have been rephrased "What did
you do with my mother?!"
Of course, Lance didn't have her. The news that a
stranger did, he found, in retrospect, less of a gas than
he had originally remarked to Notta Choencinheiska, a
curvy Ukrainian on whom in last night's mixed doubles
he had scored. And by the time Lance downshifted on
Wild Oat Ridge, the thought of Beanie's abduction
made him mad as hell. Perhaps some ultrasensory
effervescence of Rage's outrage lingered there, in the
forest, and wafted onto Route 3. At any rate, the son's