Larry Nailer lived down the street. He was older than me. I was six, he was eight. Larry and I cut a worm open once. At least, we started to cut a worm open once. Sort of hard to explain. Something else happened.
It was Saturday, I remember, early afternoon. I was picking dandelions out of the yard. Larry walked by. He said, hey. I said, hey. A pinkish-red thing squirmed in his hand. Wanna help me dissect a worm, he asked.
I was surprised. Elated. Thrilled. Larry Nailer, I assumed, didn’t know I was alive. I was also unclear how “dissect” was defined. And what it entailed. But I thought he was cute. I wanted Larry Nailer to like me. I wanted to impress him so I said, okay.
The worm wiggled on, unaware of its fate. Larry took out his Swiss Army knife. And that’s when it happened. Pictures popped in my head, images straight from John Carpenter’s dreams. I tugged Larry’s sleeve. I said, what if it screams?
He looked at me—how can I put it—as
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