GLASS SOUP by Jonathan Carroll (funny books to read .txt) 📕

what to do, what to do. But what could he do? All of it was his fault. That stupid red traffic light; this stupid new car. It made him feel bulletproof. Had made him feel bulletproof until now. And there had been so many witnesses. Some of them would surely come forward to testify against him. Everything was against him here. He was fucked any way he looked at it.

Out of the corner of his eye, John Flannery watched this moron melt down. The sight was beautiful. Flannery always loved these moments. He could easily have stolen a car off the street and saved himself the trouble and acting involved in the funny little ruse. But doing that was nowhere near as delightful as watching firsthand as Chaos devoured a person’s life in a couple of bites. Especially because he knew a secret that the driver didn’t, having done this sort of thing before, and that made it all the more delicious.

The secret was this was just the beginning. Flannery could have given this man a two-page printout of what was going to happen to him and when, give or take a few months. For example, today the driver would walk away from his brand-new car scared, unsure, ashamed of his behavior, and fundamentally overwhelmed. Even when he tried hard he wouldn’t be able to think straight about any of it, and he wouldn’t for a long time. Only his survival instinct would keep him going and moving away as far as he could get from the scene of his crime.

Eventually he would travel through resentment and worry, anger, helplessness, and even gratitude that he had been spared, like they were small-town railroad stations his express train passed by on its way to the capital city, Paranoia.

The driver was paranoid anyway—most successful people are. But after what had happened today, that paranoia would grow tenfold in his mind and heart, which was exactly what Flannery wanted. From now on, many times a day the driver would wonder Whatever happened to my car? Whatever happened to the man who took it? Should I be worried? Ashamed? What if the police knock on the door one day and say Come with us. There’s a problem.

What if? What if? What if? For years the most innocent things, events and objects—a ringing telephone, a knock on the door, a strangely colored, formal-looking envelope in the mailbox, would all become dangerous, threats, things to worry about, enemies. New things that went bump in the night—and day. The man’s life wouldn’t be ruined by this event but it would be badly wounded and for years it would walk with a limp.

Flannery loved it. Four blocks from his apartment he told the driver to pull over and stop. They were on the Obere Donaustrasse, next to the Danube Canal. From where they were parked they could see the rushing water.

Flannery pointed. “Walk across that bridge. There’s a taxi stand on the other side. Or you can take the subway home. Give me the keys and the papers now.”

The driver reached to turn off the ignition but stopped. “How do I know—”

Flannery shook his head. “You don’t know. You have to take my word that it ends right here. As soon as you get out of the car this whole thing is finished. Lucky you.”

“But I don’t know who you are. I don’t even know your name.” The man’s voice sounded mournful, a sad soul asking for reassurance.

Flannery raised his head and spent time looking at the ceiling of the car. He considered admitting who he really was and then proving it to this fool. That would be exciting! But it wouldn’t accomplish much. Or rather it wouldn’t accomplish the kind of effect Flannery preferred: long slow never-ending woe.

“Do you like proverbs?” He continued looking at the ceiling. But out of the corner of his eye he saw the driver staring suspiciously at him, as if waiting for a nasty punch line.

“Proverbs? I don’t know. What does that have to do with this?” His voice was the giveaway; its petulant, impatient tone told Flannery exactly what the guy was like. He had the voice of a spoiled brat, a bully whenever possible; a self-absorbed lightweight who’d had a lot of luck which he mistook for talent and canny insight. At all times he believed his priorities took precedence over anyone else’s. The only things of substance in his entire being at the moment were the coins he had in his pants pocket.

“Listen to this one—it’s very appropriate: ‘Whenever you take a mouthful of too-hot soup, the next thing you do will be wrong.’ Isn’t that brilliant?” Flannery’s face lit up like a child’s when its favorite television show came on.

The driver said nothing. His eyes said nothing.

It didn’t matter. Flannery had an appointment to keep with Leni; enough of this. Reaching under his ass on the seat, he pulled out the driver’s wallet and cell phone. The other man reached out to take them.

“No. Not yet.” Flannery brought the phone close to his face and began to tap in numbers on it.

“What are you doing?”

“Calling the police. Do you know how much fun they’re going to have with this? You ran a red light, hit a pedestrian in a crosswalk, then left the scene of the crime—your crime—with the victim. I’m going to tell them where we are and have them come get us. I HURT! I HAVE TO GO TO THE HOSPITAL! I HURT!”

There was a shocked silence when Flannery finished yelling. The telephone was close enough for the driver to hear someone on the other end of the line answer “Polizei.”

Snatching the phone out of Flannery’s hand and fumbling with the buttons, he managed to disconnect the call. “Give me my wallet.” Taking it, he slid a transparent envelope out of an inner pocket. It contained the necessary papers to the Porsche. He wanted to ask more questions. He wanted reassurance again that this horror would