Chapter 19Maris knocked on the door of Professor Bernhard Vitol's little suburban cottage sitting on its small plot of land. Quaint cottages in a variety of styles and colors polka-dotted the prosaic landscape, none of them palatial, all on tiny squares of earth, five one-hundredths of an acre. How much land does a person need? he wondered.
In the end, he knew, just six jerking feet.
After a minute without a response to his knock, Maris loped around back.
“You jerkin' puddle of sperm!” He caught up with the Bremale hustling toward a neighbor's porch, the man so obese he couldn't have got far anyway. “You're current on your donations and don't have any warrants. What's the matter?”
“Unhand me, Satan! You'll not take me to hell like all the others.” Vitol recoiled from Peterson like a pr
