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So what if some books may become hard to acquire. Is not the end goal worth small sacrifices of fictional or non-fictional works that may not even benefit your life in the long term if you read them? If I produce quality work, I should receive compensation. However, I do mind very much if you email my book to five or your friends — for free of course, because YOU paid for it, and therefore YOU can do whatever you want — and then they in turn do the same thing. Could this turn into millions?
Unless, of course, we use the music industry as an example of what could happen. Call this a lesson in morality. But we can trust you right?
Sure — you would never give something away like a music or a movie or a book — of course not. But a million other people would.
This insight is very valuable to me. I will be holding out publishing my books until we see what happens. Of course, the best solution is economic. I will not publish it in e-form — only paper. If you want to copy my 1, pages on a copier, then go for it. How much toner and paper is that going to cost? And your time too — at 20 cents an hour… Who has won here now? Think it over. Ritzenthaler PDF document. Torsades de pointes Sign In. Supraventricular tachycardia SVT is an abnormally fast heartbeat that originates above the ventricles in the atria or AV node.
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Guideline for the Management of Supraventricular Tachycardia. To study the transmission of this gene, two crosses are performed whose results are shown in the adjacent document.
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He tapped it with his finger. It was from someone named Jason. Hey bartender. He looked at it for several seconds before deciding not to answer. He leaned back and unpaused the game. A sniper took a shot at him from the dense foliage. He keyed himself into a crouch. It buzzed again, and he glanced over. You looked. Fuck you, he thought. He dropped the controller and typed a response.
Pick it up at the bar tonight.
A moment passed. Did you look at all the pretty pictures yet? He typed.
Maybe I should take it to the police. Take a look. Might like what you see. He waited, but nothing else came from the phone. The video game was frozen on the death screen. He switched it off and gave his full attention to the yellow phone. It felt like a conduit of dark energy, and he felt uncomfortable holding on to it. He placed it on an end table beside the couch and called up the menu. The camera icon pulled his eye toward it, as though it exerted its own peculiar gravity. He touched the icon and scrolled over to the picture gallery.
There were four saved images and a video file. He stared at them a moment. He tried to come to terms with what he was seeing, tried to arrange the world in such a way that would accommodate his own mundane life, the daily maintenance of his ordinary existence, along with what he saw arrayed before him in neat little squares, like snapshots of Hell. He tapped his finger on the first one so it ballooned to fill the screen.
He was middle-aged, balding, with a large, flat nose; his face was soft and rounded, like the features of a stone carving worn smooth by time. There was nothing sinister about this picture; it might be an intimate portrait taken by a lover, or a dear friend.
The second was the same man from the same angle but taken from a few feet farther away. In this picture the man was clearly dead, felled by a violent strike to the head. The man was lying on the sidewalk. The blood around his head reflected a disc of overhead light, a streetlamp or a flashlight.
The picture had been taken at night. The third picture revealed a new setting. This one had been taken indoors, under a harsh light, probably a fluorescent. Seventies-style wood paneling covered the wall in the background. It sat planted straight on the table; someone must have taken the time to balance it, to arrange it just so. The wound in his head was not visible from this angle.
No blood marred the scene, save the inevitable blackened ring around the neck. It seemed that some care had been taken to clean the blood from his head, primping him like a schoolboy for his yearbook photo. A slender red book lay on the table behind it, partially obscured, its spine facing the camera. Will tried to slide on to the next one, but his fingers had gone numb and the phone clattered to the floor. Putting the phone back on the table, he closed his eyes and forced himself to calm down.
His breath was shaky, his nerves jumping. It occurred to him abruptly, like some divine communication, that he did not have to look any further. He knew something awful had happened, that a murder of grotesque proportions had been committed and documented, and that any further examination was unnecessary. He should go to the police right now and wash his hands of it.
But stopping was unthinkable. He scrolled to the fourth photograph.
The soft, generous features of his face, which had suggested to Will only moments ago the close proximity of someone beloved, were obscured now by the bloody undersides of themselves. The skull had been scraped clean, or nearly so. The eye sockets had been scooped hollow. Only the video clip remained. Pressing the button was not like scrolling through the pictures; he could not pretend he was carried by momentum. This was a separate choice. It was his second chance to turn away. He pressed play.
The video player took a moment to load, and then filled the screen with the shaky image of the head on the table.
A blare of static shrieked from the phone as someone said something unintelligible. Will tapped the button to lower the volume, conscious of the sound intruding into the atmosphere of his apartment, like a species of ghost. Shame, fear, and a weird thrill filled his body. Hold it steady. The view stabilized, holding firm on the severed head, which was canting to one side.
The top of the skull had been shaved down, leaving a red, raw hole just above the temple. A girl stepped into frame, her back to the camera. She had straight blond hair, an athletic body.
She straightened the head again, held it a moment to make sure it stayed in place. She retreated, and a calm settled over the image. An almost imperceptible movement of the camera as the hand holding it trembled. A stifled, nervous giggle. The head shifted slightly, as if it had heard something and had to turn a fraction to listen more closely.
Then it moved again, and something seemed to move in the darkness of its open skull. Four thick, pale fingers extended from inside the hole and hooked over the forehead. Someone screamed off camera and the image skewed wildly. The video ended.
Jesus, what time is it? Skipped math. What are you looking at, Will? There was nothing genuine about the gesture, and she pushed him away, plainly irritated. Carrie, just trust me. What does that even mean? My friends can only be guys? What about Steve?
He wants to fuck you. You want to check my phone? See if I have any pictures of him on it? Go check it. Was she bluffing? What if he surprised her and really looked? What would he find? I wish you trusted me too. Nothing about his behavior signaled anything good. He knew that. He retrieved the phone from the table and placed it into her hand. He watched it all a second time with her.
When she was done, she returned it to him, her hand shaking. He stared at her face the way he would a television screen, waiting for something to happen on it, waiting for it to give him something to react to.
The one who was texting last night? These were taken earlier. They were already on the phone. He obviously knows Tina. Were those his teeth we saw this morning? He was begging you! Carrie stared at him as he waited for an answer, the phone trilling lightly into his ear.
After a moment it stopped ringing. He brought the phone away from his ear a fraction of an inch, thinking at first that it had been disconnected, but something about the quality of the silence told him otherwise. It sounded broken and wet, like something sliding itself together in a slurry of blood and bones.
A tongue testing the border of language. Liquid syllables collided and slipped past each other. It sounded too close, like it was already living in his head. Carrie crouched on the floor, fitting the battery back into the phone, snapping its shell back into place.
Was that Garrett? And why would that be, he wondered, the fear and the disgust of a moment ago settling into a thick soup of anger.
He felt it threaten to breach every time the door swung open, and he hated himself for it. All college kids looked to him as if they came from the same homogenous gene pool, as if they were all grown in some remote basement laboratory. Members of the Larval Class. He drank a little more than normal that night, riding his usual buzz a little further into the red.
The clientele was sparse enough and familiar enough, though, that he could afford to work with dulled senses. They fetched beers from him and settled onto their stools or into their customary orbits around the pool table, the rails of normal activity so comfortable and rigid that it seemed nothing peculiar could possibly exist in the world.
Will felt a curious relief. A distant alarm rang somewhere deep in his brain when he realized this, but he doused it with a shot of whiskey. They watched it a few more times after she put the phone back together.
Somewhere in there, she cried.
Then she stopped. Something dead was in the air with them, its limp black wings pressing them flat. He was happy not to have to think about it. At some point Alicia came in without Jeffrey. He felt an immediate lightening of his spirit, and her arrival seemed like a kind of justice to him, like some secret communication from the universe, a kind gesture to balance the scales. She took her usual stool and he mixed her usual drink. The comfortable click of the pool balls punctuated the low chatter in the bar, Sam Cooke crooned easily from the jukebox, and the true order of the world nestled back into place.
Went to see him this morning. What did he do? Being an asshole. Anybody come in to claim that phone? I want to try to cut back.
The thought was terrifying in a way that even the strange video was not. A great sorrow, disproportionate and bewildering, moved through him.
Maintain the buzz. The night achieved its rhythm. The dull anxiety he felt each time the door opened to admit someone new did not abate completely, but as midnight swung around and receded, it faded to a quiet hum.
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Everything related to the phone and the college kids retracted into a dim kernel of absurdity. Alicia stayed the whole shift, easygoing and flirtatious, just like the old days. She laughed at his dumb jokes, made a few of her own. He felt like a human being again. When Doug came in to relieve him at two, he snagged a half-full bottle of bourbon from the shelf and swung it like a pendulum in front of Alicia. It stung. The lights outside washed across the windshield, casting a glow onto her skin and then releasing it into darkness again.
When you say something is beautiful, it really is. That word means something to you. It filled him up. They crossed it and walked a little beyond, settling into the grass along the downward slope.
The air was humid and close; clouds cruised across the stars. Their shoulders were pressed together as they lay back and watched them. Will took a pull from the bottle and passed it to her; she did the same. No people. I like no people. He turned to her, his nose in her hair. She smiled.He finished off the beer, trying to keep his mind unanchored, free-floating; but Jeffrey and Alicia kept bobbing to the surface, thwarting his efforts.
He shambled to the coffeepot and poured himself a mug. If you delete this image: It takes many many people fighting the weight to over turn it.
Plus de Women liked him. Torsades de pointes
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