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( BILLY ) What, you think a knife doesn't cut it?
( STU ) I think it's too basic. I think they've got to suffer more. How about a chainsaw?
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CHAPTER NINE. the dream calls for blood woodsboro, september 27, 1996
261 Turner Lane, Woodsboro, California. There's autumn leaves scattered in the driveway, even though the sun is warm on the roof and the air is stuffy, suffocating. The window on the very right of the second storey is propped open with a few textbooks so the boys inside can breathe.
Stu sits on his bed, throwing a tennis ball onto the floor so it bounces onto the wall, then back onto the ground, then back into his hands, a hypnotic song of tock, tock, tock droning over Killing In The Name pulsating from the stereo, and Stu can feel the bass all the way into his bones. He hasn't spoken a word to Billy today. Not after last night.
On his desk chair, Billy sits, the opposite way around, legs spread, one arm resting on the backrest, facing Stu with his dark, brooding eyes, a greasy strand of her falling into his forehead. He's sucking at his lower lip. His other hand, the one not tapping the rhythm to the song out on the backrest, is playing around with a jackknife. The handle's still bloody, dried blood, the colour of rust. He stares at Stu, waiting for him to say anything, and Stu finds it hard not to comply.
