I’d had just about enough of Brennan Prate and his s**t disturbing, and I wasn’t going to take it anymore.
Something had come over me in the weeks since that night at the Cajun Cage with Otis, when I had stumbled upon the dying gopher. It felt as if a major shift had occurred within me, like a core part of my personality had been altered, broken off, compromised. Normally, what you saw with Hector Spencer Thompson was what you got. I’d always been, if I was anything at all, pleasantly predictable. My appearance, for example, was anodyne to the extreme: I was of medium height, medium build; I wore small, slight spectacles, neatly ironed shirts, pressed pants; I was always clean-shaven and kept my silvery hair short. My attitude was equally inoffensive. I thought of myself as warm-hear
