“Murphy?”
“Yes’m?”
“You been thinking those bad thoughts again.”
“Yes’m.”
“Better tell ‘em to me Murphy.”
“No’m.”
“Better tell me or I whip you good.”
“Yes’m. Reckon you’ll whup me either way.”
(The keen and screwed-up eye.) “Was that a smart remark?! -- Why I’ll--“ (reaching for the switch.)
“No’m -- not smart. A really dumb remark -- I see that now.” (Trembling as he spies once more, the instrument of his sharp distress.) “But a true one, ma’am. -- Can’t help it, ma’am.” (Wincing, wincing; shriveling beneath the blows.) “Can’t half help it.” (Wincing deeper now -- wincing even beneath the wincing skin.) “Gotta find some’n, someth’n, help me help it….”
(Furious) “I’m helping you!”
(More in sorrow) “No’m. All respect, ma’am, but -- no, you’re not helping, not helping at all.”
(The blows fall thick and fast -- herself almost at liquefaction, as in a dream -- while young Murphy shrivels, dwindles, to but a tiny remnant of his former self.)
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