"Don't try to arrange me on your
chessboard, monster. Maybe you can move Natalie around, and maybe you
can move around a bunch of Kensington no-hopers, and maybe you can budge
my idiot girlfriend a couple of squares, but I'm not on the board. I got
my job, and if I leave it, it'll be for me."
Alan retreated to his porch and sipped his own wine. His mouth tasted
like it was full of blood still, a taste that was woken up by the
wine. He set the glass down.
"I'm not playing chess with you," he said. "I don't play games. I try to
help -- I *do* help."
Krishna swigged the glass empty. "You wanna know what makes you a
monster, Alvin? That attitude right there. You don't understand a single
fucking thing about real people, but you spend all your time rearranging
them on your board, and you tell them and you tell yourself that you're
helping.
"You know how you could help, man? You could crawl back under your rock
and leave the people's world for people."
Something snapped in Alan. "Canada for Canadians, right? Send 'em back
where they came from, right?" He stalked to the railing that divided
their porches. The taste of blood stung his mouth.
Krishna met him, moving swiftly to the railing as well, hood thrown
back, eyes hard and glittering and stoned.
"You think you can make me feel like a racist, make me *guilty*?" His
voice squeaked on the last syllable.
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