Greg planted his hand in the middle of the kid's bare chest and shoved him as hard as he could - which was hard indeed. 'Gimme that, you asshole! That's mine! That's.' Greg was holding the shirt out, pinched together in two fingers at the neck, ready to drop it when it got too hot. No one ever called him runt, Greg Stillson thought, and his headache worsened. The self-satisfied little smirk was gone, replaced with a look of wide-eyed shock and surprise - and the anger of a spoiled brat who has had everything his own way for too long.

The front legs of the kid's chair came down with a bang and he leaped toward Greg with his bottle of Pepsi still in his hand. If I don't get it back, I'm going to have the American Civil Liberties Union down on your red neck.' 'Your Deputy Dawg took my shirt and I want it back. The kid was looking at Greg with lazy contempt. See what you can do with him, George had told Greg when Greg informed him that Chief Wiggins had arrested his sister's kid. And George was a man to be reckoned with on the town council. Not that George cared for him much (George had fought his way across Germany in 1945, and he had two words for these long-haired freaks, and those two words were not Happy Birthday), but he was blood. this kid was a college boy, his hair was moderately long but squeaky clean, and he was George Harvey's nephew. That was no long-haired bike-freak with a bad case of bowlegs and B.O. That was why he would be careful with this prime asshole. And Greg felt his destiny was closer than ever. Outside, the late August morning was bright and warm. That realization would have to be brought home to him.

Free Dead Zone Adventure