When the Day of Evil Comes [antikvár]

'omeone said to me that day, "It's hotter than the eyes of hell out here." I can't remember who. Looking back, 1 wonder if it meant something, that phrase. Something more than a weather report. But as it was, I let the remark pass without giving it a thought. It was hot. Hotter than the eyes of hell. That was true enough. If I'd known enough to be afraid, I would have been. But I was a thousand years younger then, it seems, and 1 didn't know what was out there. To me, it seemed like an ordinary day. I was making a rare appearance at a faculty event. I hate faculty events. Generally, truth be told, I hate any sort of event. Anything that involves pretending, in a preordained way, to like a bunch of people with whom I have something perfunctory in common. Faculty events fall into this category. This particular faculty event was a picnic at Barton Springs in Austin. The picnic was the final fling of a faculty retreat—my definition of hell on earth, speaking of hell. They'd all spent the weekend at a retreat center in the hill country of Texas, getting to know each other. Or bonding, as we say in the industry Imagine the scene. A dozen puffed-up psychologists (1 include myself only in the latter part of this description,, for 1 do