Math destroyer pdf download

Both is smashed so bad I shake when I look at em. Black jelly starting to scab. Anything with sugar makes shine. Fermented grain or fruit—apples, plums, strawberries—keeps the air stinky sweet. Smell washes over me so thick it almost sticks to my clothes.

I lift the lid on each barrel. Them sugars is bound up tight. I roll em into a leather sack and tote em to the tub. Rest em easy on the bottom. Stipe and his boys sure appreciate shine, though. Chapter Two Joe Stipe sucked in the sweet smells of battle. Stipe tucked his thumbs under his waistband.

The deepest scent was the earth. The ground was black with centuries of accumulated humus, matter once alive and now dead. How Achilles had turned and placed his stunning career in jeopardy. The men had gasped. He would someday be a grand champion. It was worth reliving a dozen times, from every conceivable viewpoint.

Stipe listened to his men and smiled. The odors were still there, trampled into the black dirt. He released his breath and leaned closer, inhaled deeper, savoring the stink. That was the last scent. Stipe was alone with his three closest workers and two hangers-on. In minutes the pallets would be stacked four high on the beds of three trucks so as to remain below the bed walls. Although insulated by the attendance of local police chief Horace Smylie, Stipe insisted his operation remain clandestine.

Girly men—and there were a lot of them around Asheville—would raise a stink. A fourth man, Ernie Gadwal, loitered at the edge of the lantern light.

Stipe knew Worley, going back years and years. Hell, driving even? I feel for you. How long you been without work? Come see me at the garage tomorrow. A battle played out on his face. Pride fought duty, and his wife and son won. Burly grabbed the bill, nodded to Stipe, and spun to the other men.

Stipe watched him for a moment. Burly was an example of an honest American, raised with decent principles, getting screwed by the system. He was tough, ornery, and prideful, and probably said meaningful prayers every night.

Not like these others Stipe saw around town, the girly men. Even in Gleason, city ways had crept in. Gentlemanly behavior aroused more dirty looks than thank-yous. And correcting a woman was equally obtuse—what right did any man have to correct a woman?

Self esteem was more important than competence. Rights were more important than achievements. Even the last sanctuary of manhood, a Sunday football game, failed against the universal assault on masculinity. Enviro-whackos selling cars. Sitcoms featuring dull men and dominant women. Stipe alone was willing to battle for the old ways. Stipe noticed Burly Worley staring toward the remaining trucks.

Stipe turned. Cory Smylie sat on a tailgate, hands on his knees, head low like a calculating dog. His father was Horace Smylie, Gleason police chief.

Cory had been raised by a modern woman and a spineless man, and neither had the inclination or gumption to keep him on a short leash, set some boundaries, by God. Cory had enjoyed every toy, pursued every whim, had been guaranteed the world owed him his dreams. Stipe could tell just to look at him.

Cory had rejected higher education. He used connections forged as the child of a well- traveled mother and began a small-time hook and crook operation.

He stole. He sold drugs. He lived for intoxication. And then he lived in jail. His father knew most of what had landed him in the slammer, and being a Christian who believed in second chances, Chief Smylie had waged a personal campaign to get him accepted at UNC Asheville. Thinking of his problem with Baer, Stipe lifted his arm and stepped toward Smylie as if to take him under wing. They were the boys Larry jawed about getting in with. They were cool. Connected with skull and jaw, and as he reared for a third swift blow one of the other boys grabbed his arm.

Another joined with a knee to his groin. Boys shouted and cursed. Girls screamed and wilted. Inched closer. That blonde Larry was all crazy about leaned against a wall locker, shifted sideways for an unobstructed view. Baer absorbed kicks at the bottom of the pile. Baer spat blood, struggled to breathe. At last only Burly was hitting him, in the same section of his back over and over. His stomach turned. Kids shouted. The blows ceased and the crowd parted. Principal Doolittle had lifted Burly by his lapels and slammed him into a locker.

The girl was there, the blonde. Ruth Jackson, the snotty daughter of the Asheville judge. They walked home. Baer dragged his feet, kicked loose rocks. Larry had Baer in size, but not moxie. His pants ended before reaching his ankles. He talked of wealth and mused out loud that his penchant for mathematics might carry him beyond his beginnings.

Their father worked in Asheville but lived with another woman and took his earnings to her. Their mother sewed, cleaned, catered. And performed other services to put food on the table. Larry jumped to his feet with a pocketknife in his hand. Baer led with a left before Larry could open the blade. Caught Larry in the nose. He stood dazed.

Baer brought another. On the ground Larry used his weight advantage to straddle Baer. Pinned, Baer brought his knee up hard. Larry toppled to the side, hands cupped over his groin. His mouth was open like he wanted to speak or breathe and could do neither.

Larry, leaning forward and breathing shallowly, eased into a seat at a desk closest the door. You got homework? Sit and do your homework. Baer turned on a lamp with a green dome and a brass base, the only item in the house that suggested money. A painting of no particular ocean hung on the wall above Baer. Mother returned to the kitchen and trussed a chicken.

Behind, Larry mumbled and growled. Baer closed the pamphlet. Mother appeared. At the bottom of the water, colored the same yellow as the stained porcelain, lay a rubber. Rinsed his hands and splashed water into his eyes. His lungs shook and his heart rippled. He was aware, detached. A dormant cluster of cells awoke deep within a corner of his mind.

Baer batted her arms. He saw rug burns. She took his hand. Electricity trickled through him as if from the room, like he was an antenna. She got to her feet and stalked to the lamp. Lifted the unplugged cord at the base, hand over hand like a rope. She studied the burned plug where it met the cord. Baer watched her eyes fall on him, then shift to Larry.

Baer felt the shock again, strong. His eyes pulsed red. He collapsed. They watched Baer a few hours and released him. After that it was hard to trust folks when I could see they was all the time deceiving. Every time I try to cross the cage they shock the shit out of me. The curse wanes with age and drink. Everybody lies, and I see every one. It was time to moderate things.

He lifted a. It would make him feel like a man. Cory placed his hand in his pocket and felt the folded piece of paper Stipe had given him. They only developed into brutes through the patient application of training, conditioning.

Cory had heard of a man who lived in the woods and distilled hooch. That was years ago, but Cory Smylie was not one to forget being thwarted.

The woods had changed in the intervening years; trees had grown, some had died. A giant stump that had been rotted in the center was now a jagged pillar on one side, with the rest crumbled. Cory stopped and thought. Hell yeah. It would be a military operation, like a video game. The crag below where he stood sported a cave-like recess. It was a perfect blind. Cory circled to the back of the rock and followed the terrain lower around the face. A well-worn trail cut below the rock and led up a steep incline to the dark cavern.

Cory grabbed a rope hanging from the ledge and pulled himself up. He hesitated at the opening. The cave was only ten feet deep, but who knew what strange animals the pervasive shadows hid? A bobcat? A bear? Bones from a small animal. A crumpled Schlitz can—a relic of the famous Schlitz Indians. Creighton had probably done all this so he could hunt deer without walking very far.

There was a word for that. It was only morning. He was going to kill a man. To really do it. There can be no mistakes. Would he really do it? Damn… was it loaded? This was the real shit. Cool down. Smoke another joint. Shit yeah, he was going to kill a man. He could shoot. Lord, how he could shoot. He was a sniper. Cory lit the joint. Sucked in the smoke and held it in his lungs until the burn felt good. In a moment, normalcy. He was cool. Creighton was just a man.

He could kill a man. Me and Fred split a few eggs. Been two week since I hauled him home. Both his eyes is scabs. Finally he cants his head and while I look at his eyes he says, What are you doing about it?

A couple black cherry nose through but nothing else got the gumption. Wind boomed like thunder. Thunder sounded like God. Roots popped out the ground and the whole thing pitched over.

But hemlock grows thick and other trees caught it. I climbed to the canopy and it was another world. Birds you never see up close. I looked down and them green pine needles looked soft as pillows. A breeze got everything swaying. All of a sudden the whole damn thing was ready to come down and jumping at them pillows seemed credible agin riding a sixty-foot hemlock to the ground.

Hell of a spooky place. More so drunk. Water gurgles over rocks at the brook; wind rustles leaves. One time when the humidity was thick as week-old cream I sat so long I saw a mushroom grow. I spin around on my log and peer between trunks. Some fool hunter wandered in on my posted land— though I got a sign up every ten feet the whole damn way around. I dive to dirt.

That sounds like a sniper to me. I crawl to tree cover and then run. I slow when I wheeze. Pull out Smith and rotate the cylinder. Keep it pointed ahead. I hunker behind a tree and catch my breath. I squat and look out between the tree trunks far as I can see, and scan leftward from the Hun blind.

If I could only see him. I got no electric. No red. I slip from tree to tree, closer and closer to the Hun blind. Twenty feet out, I pause. Peek from behind the rough bark of an oak. My heart thuds and neck sweat chills me. The overhang sits upslope and the last ten feet is steep. Got the overhang casting everything in a deep ugly shadow, trapping your scent from any animal wanders by. I point Smith in the air. Maybe shoot me in the back as soon as I get to the rocks? And run. Boots thudding.

I shoot the ceiling once, twice. Each discharge sparks and smokes and zings like a Yosemite Sam gunshow. Got one shot left. At the last second I dodge left to right. Swing my gun arm inside. I follow, ready to plant my last bullet in some sniper or die from his. Smells like dope up here. I pick em up. I swipe the paper. Sit on the log and look a clean line to my still site. This has to be where the shooter drew his bead.

I catch my breath a minute. I unfold the paper. I damn near got steam coming out my eyes. I stew a minute. Sure, you sit this far from my camp and you got the patience, you can take me out. I stand outside the blind, looking in. Looking above. Slope of the rock give me an idea.

Somebody want to send me a message? Come on back for my answer. I want em round and smooth. Five trips. Finally, I ax an eight-inch piece of maple, each end at a harsh cant. Years ago I hung a rope over the ledge to help me get up the trail. I scout a faint bowl in the nearby surface and set my pumpkin rock there and prop it in place with the eight-inch maple.

Wary, I stand back a pace. And careful as all hell, lower the rope back over the ledge. Let it go, asshole.

Next, the barbed wire. I study my resources. Birch tree. Plenty of sticks and rocks. A hemlock right close to the trail. I head back to the homestead, pass the house and stop at the shed. Grab an auger with a one-inch bit. At the Hun blind I drill three holes into the side of the hemlock closest the crag. One more for a stake. With the back of my ax head I drive the stake into the ground about twenty feet from the birch tree.

Loop the rope over it and jam the other end between my belt and britches. The hemlock branch goes across the trail so anybody wants access to the Hun blind has to push it aside. I string the rest of the wire across the trail.

I write her a letter, or drown her in shine. I keep a notepad in a plastic box under the tarp, and a pen right next.

Fred is better than he was at least. You know I can tell a liar. Well, I remember sitting with you and thinking you was the only person in the world who told the truth. Even after a little likker! Aw hell. You know where I live.

You come here, just honk the horn. Baer I tear the love note from the pad, fold it, tuck it in my pocket. Only thing I go in there for is storing letters and likker and patching up Fred. House has history. I wrote in the letter that she told the truth because I never called her out on the giant lie she told that set me on this path, and her on hers, and Larry his.

We was young. And so these last thirty years has been all about disbelief. I stow the pen and look through the trees, and back at Fred. Looking at Fred. Sounds like Pete. I sit real quiet. Come on the house from behind, enter through the basement. He sits behind the wheel in a cloud of stogie smoke, and rolls down his window. I hold up the jugs. He nods. I rest em in the straw lining the truck bed. Nestle em down separate like they was nitro. I bring four at a time, and snug em in.

Finally I stand beside his window and he shells a handful of bills from a wallet looks like he pulled it from a shipwrecked corpse. Tell him I said so.

Fuck him. Fuck you too. I tuck the money in my pocket, and studying the red hue in his eyes, think to pull the green out and count it. But the count comes out. Or who knows what. That it? But I was wrong. An extra gallon? Easy now. I never see such optimism. This is a misunderstanding is all. He exhales. You got me. You got some wiles, is what. I dunno. I got the wife to feed. Stare into his eyes. And we understand each other now. They hang back in the shadows and watch.

On the left, most the way, is corn or wheat. Craddock tills it, then goes on and tills his own land too. Slap six singles on the counter. Harry takes the letters I saved for Ruth. I write the date by the return address, case it helps her. Harry holds the stack edgewise, raps em on the counter, tosses em in a bin. He grins, and says the same words as the last hundred times. Only going Mars Hill. He rings me out and drops the change in the jar for the three-year-old angel named Susan Wilkes, got the leukemia.

I nod. Them squirrel bark no matter what you say or do. Joe Stipe. Something I might ask you, too. His arm weighs like a bucket of lard and he leans as he talks.

I got my eyes on his free hand. Something change? I watch his face. You got to come spend some time with your brothers-at- arms. Gimme another hit of that. Every week, same night. You know the place. So I was the dumbass fessed every crush to every girl.

I was the one told Deputy White we all knew he was gay as a jaybird. It never settled in my head that no one else in the whole world sees red and feels electric like me, and most folks is happy with untruth, both telling and hearing. Bring two. He empties it. White pit bull. I glance back at his friends. Star on his chest? Dogmen take it serious as hell. Talk about dead dogs soldiering on in Valhalla. Been out the loop on those sorts a goings-on. He got his fat hands on every form of commerce in the county, but the bulk of his dough comes from the trucking company.

One of his drivers runs to Cincinnati and stays fresh on my shine, so I know a little about Stipe. They work on his semi trucks, and more trucks is parked in rows on a cement pad. All that, surrounded by wood and hills. Maybe one of em was shooting at me from the Hun blind. Got to keep retribution correlated with the evil deserves it. So I brought Smith and a pair of binoculars. Nothing happens for a while, and I dwell on other things.

They must be ten brutes in there licking wounds, commiserating. Waiting somebody to do the right thing. Cut em some slack. Fella comes out the garage and looks this way. Pull your thumb out your yin-yang and get to work. I adjust the binoculars and zoom in close. Waves at somebody. I zip back to the left, way, way over. Wood bark stings my cheek. I drop the binoculars. Knee smashes into my binoculars. I stretch along the ground sideways, extend my leg.

Walking bullets down the tree. Pin me down. Dry leaves sound like thunder. I wriggle. They hunt buck, put on drives, sweep the woods and funnel animals so they got to run a gauntlet. The crunching closes in, both side. I crawl best I can, not dragging leaves or making trail. Rhododendron grows tight and low.

I bust through. Pull Smith and wait. Sounds on the left stop. On the right they come closer. I hunker down and a shot cuts leaves above my head. They must yet be in town. These boys is damn near comical. What the hell you doing? I get electric all through me. Nothing left to do here. They make sounds with they boots—hell, I can see one by his pant legs. Kind of grabs my cool by the balls. I brace Smith agin the rhododendron trunk and sight on the edge of his pants. The fella on the right stands still, waiting on me to come out I guess.

I squeeze. Shoot him! He shot me! Bullets smack branches and leaves. Splinters in my back. I spy a depression maybe six-inch deep and half as big as me—I slide the good parts in and leave my legs up and out. Dirt kicks in my face. Finally one stops, then the other.

I come out the brush. Empty breech thirsty for one bullet. Eyes got a tinge but I want some electric. I pull the hammer. He pulls his hammer.

Got electric up and down my arms. Nape of my neck. Shoot him, Reed! Like blows in the wind, this way and that? Like a pussy willow—that kind of reed? Pull that trigger for me, Reed. Take Hopalong with you back to the garage, and when your master gets home, you tell him Baer Creighton was along, and brought his bullets. More I think, more it torques my ass.

Wonder where that fella at the garage is. I trek back the way I come. Headed east the forest opens up big, just woods and hills, on and on.

Nothing safer. I got a half-mile between me and Stipe and my heart settles; got a comfortable sweat on my neck. Not me. I reckon I won that skirmish. Chapter Seven Wake with a chill rippling through my back and dark all around. Got the purple glow of security lights, and men working in the garage.

I suspect a guard roams the premises. If it was my operation they would be, after a shootout. Just like them booby traps at the Hun nest: enemy sends a sniper to harangue you in your own damned house, you strike back. Once you got the advantage, you press him back on his heels. He wants new dogs, them cost money. Fight chickens. I get up a little giddy. The dogs is quiet.

I come up slow. Wind picks up at my back and the dogs grumble. You take it easy, now. Now the whole batch is pissed and snooting. I glance back to the garage— sound of wrenches on concrete.

No alarm. Up close the pen I try and reason with a brute. Your name Killer, something? He gnashes at it. Rest of the dogs growl. All right. We at peace. I pull the latch.

Killer pops out like his legs was coiled springs. His back is bristled like a wire brush and a snarl pulls his lips back so his face is all teeth and eyes. Voice is low like that truck in the bay. Well shit.

Killer steps closer. He takes another step and his voice pitches higher. I skirt sideways along the kennel. Dogs bang the wire. Killer pivots. I get past him and turn.

Killer launches. Knocks me agin the wire. Got my arm in a vise with nails. Shaking my bones even as he falls back to earth. I drop to my knees and he rears hard and topples me to my back. I thought we was cool. Out the corner my eye I see that mechanic coming at me with a tool in the air. He snarls. Eases a tiny bit and snaps a better hold on my throat. I get a breath and his mouth smells like mud and old cowshit. He shakes like to snap my neck.

Lowers me and jerks back and I feel every bone in my spine pop. I got terror in my blood, shooting fast through me.

Got blood all on me, and a dog letting out his last air, his last piss. Feel my neck all slippy with dog drool and blood. I cough. I point Smith. Step back. He drops the tire tool and lifts his hands head-high. I step back again. Creighton shot Achilles? He points one way, then another, random. Bullets smack the kennel. Fires again and again. Wonder what kind of hell I got coming now. He studies the scarf I wrapped over the bites on my neck.

He collects his thoughts and prepares his pitch. Now every one of em smiles at me. Regular money not good enough for you? You know the price of gold keeps going down? You keep pulling funds away from us, but how much are you losing by avoiding paper? I head down the street nervous and suspicious of everyone I see, but nobody minds me.

I need out of some paper cash. Mark my words. Fits an Mannlicher. In the market? They gleam through plastic. Got one more stop. I knock. Then I push it open. Bree stares at me. Shoulder aches like shit. I got to steady myself before turning the corner.

I used to tease Ruth she was part Cherokee, and Ruth always hushed me on account of her asshole father. Her mouth is all Creighton. Come in. Sit down. So I quit. Sink so low my eyes is level with my knees. The girls wriggle from my arms and start climbing me. She points. She giggles and Mae watches. I put it on the end table. Or you want me to tell him?

Rich old Preston Forsyth Jackass? You know how he is. You have to let me tell you about my MBA program. The Jacksons can keep their money. You getting by? The side of the paper is yellow from too much sun. Whole town knew it was on account of her holing up with me.

I slip a hand in my pocket and feel two plastic-sheathed coins. They ought to be a law agin mothers living in decrepitude. Millany stands at the door, looking out. Start Olympiad Test Now. Download PDF Worksheet. Start a Test. Olympiad Blogs Online Our experts will help you with their experience on various Olympiad related topics.

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