#was so tempted to throw some John x Simon in there

[tamayakii]

cw // Trans!Ghost

I NEED GHOST WITH A PUSSY!!! GIVE ME SIMON WHO HAS A HAIRY PUSSY WITH FAT LIPS AND A FATTER CLIT FROM TESTOSTERONE!!!! I WANT TO PUT MY FACE IN IT!!!! SWEATY, HAIRY, CUM DRIPPING, ANYTHING IDC!!!

[pricegouge]

Fatted Rabbit, Part Thirteen on AO3

Content

Bearshifter!Price x reader | explicit

"No bones, either. Like a man stripped naked, then got absolutely atomized not ten feet away. Poor bastard, huh? Weirdest part was the way the tracks died. They shouldn't've, you know? Too muddy. So I poked around some more. Found the guy's wallet. Wanna take another guess whose it was?" There's a pit in your stomach but you're not sure why. You know who he's gonna say; know John didn't get eaten by a bear. But you don't know what he's getting at, what he thinks he saw. Distantly, you remember how he talks to himself when he thinks you can't hear. "Was it John's?" Finger gun, pointer finger flush against your temple. "Bingo."

A/N Well I did it. Someone gets eaten this chapter so sayonara if that's not for you. I don't think it's gratuitous, but also I'm a gore hound and my standards aren't normal so proceed with caution if you must. As a heads up, this is the beginning of the end, folks. I think there'll only be two, maybe three chapters after this :(

Simon's resolve finally breaks when John takes a winding corner in the foothills of the bighorns too quick and they nearly roll over the guardrail. His grip on the holy shit handle, white knuckled and muscle bunching as it had been for hours, yanks down hard enough to break it and even he can't play that off casually, although he's sorely tempted to try when he realizes Price is too focused on the road to have noticed. Simon sighs and throws the handle out the window before telling Price to pull over. He's ignored, so he snaps his fingers obnoxiously in John's face and nearly gets them bit off in the process.

"Fuck off, Riley," John growls, shoving the other man's hand away, but Simon persists, shoving right back.

"Pull over now , Price."

"Nearly there," John mutters, accelerator never wavering.

"Roight, but the plan is to get there, yeah?"

John risks taking his eyes off the road for exactly two seconds in order to glare at his passenger. Simon, of course, glares right back, hopefully managing to make it look apathetic despite the fact he'd recently torn a piece of Price's car off. 

"Pull over, cap. I'll drive."

"And what'll I do?"

"Not kill us for a start," Simon grumbles and John snarls but complies anyway. It's a quick exchange, and soon Price is simmering in the passenger seat while Simon tears through the countryside at a slightly less lethal pace. It's bad for him, probably; leaves his mind free to wander and envision worse and worse scenarios. Simon hopes it fuels the fire, leaves the general din of anxiety in his gut roiling. He's been beside himself since he'd heard Graves come through that door, sitting up stiff as a board as he yelled through his earpiece for the bird to wake up. It's not good, but it's useful. Himself, he remains as quiet as ever, content to let John simmer, and by the time they make it to the motel where the bird's phone last pinged from, he's damn near frothing at the bit.

Simon pulls up alongside the Wrangler and John is jumping out before the Suburban is even fully parked. The driver's side door hangs slightly open, battery evidently dead after keeping the dome light on half the night. Simon studies the ground around it while John inspects the car thoroughly. He finds a set of keys not far off, crouches to get them and pops back up in the passenger window, watches as his longtime friend sniffs the driver's seat like a bloodhound. He briefly wonders how well a joke would go over right then, thinks better of it when John snarls something at him that sounds maybe a little like 'What?'

Simon just shakes his head minutely, weighing options he knows Price is too wound up to consider. If the Jeep is left here, someone will eventually come to tow it. And then someone will need to be billed, and cops will get involved. But John's found blood on the door, and Simon very much doubts they'll want cops sniffing around by the end of this.

"Jump it," Simon instructs, dangling the keys at John. I'm gonna go see what the clerk knows."

"I'll come with -."

"You won't. You're too distracted, and I'm scarier. Jump it." He lobs the keys over the roof of the Jeep and Price grumbles but complies, returns to stewing.

The reception area is dim, mildewy, the carpet so thin and threadbare the concrete dust of the subflooring puffs around each of Simon's quiet, careful bootfalls. There's no one at the desk so Simon takes it upon himself to slide behind it and knock the mouse of the computer just to see if it's locked. It is, of course, because nothing can go right anymore, so he thumps the help bell hard enough to break it and sits to await the clerk, for all appearances just as patient as ever.

Simon can hear the clerk muttering to himself about customers as he rounds the door of the office in the back, voice thin and high. He half expects Anthony Perkins, gets frumpy old James Stewart with a hell of a black eye instead. The man stops dead when he spots Simon, takes a half a step back before thinking better of it and trying to square his shoulders up. "You're not s'pposed to be back here," he gripes, thick American accent adding to the vague washed up aura of him.

Simon ignores him. "Where'd you tha' shiner?"

The man falters a bit, squeezes an old-looking ice pack in his fist absently. They both track the movement, and when Simon looks up again, the man - Les, by his nametag - has a grim, resigned look about him. "What d'you want?"

"Wanna know who you lost a fight against, first. Then I wanna see some security footage."

"I can't disclose that to anyone but -."

"No, but you will."

"And why would I do that, now?"

"We'll get there," Simon grumbles, leaning forward in the seat until it creaks ominously under his weight. "Who gave you the beat down, Les?"

The man sighs, gives up pretending he's not in pain and plasters the ice pack back to his face. "Didn't give a name."

"I'd imagine not, but you can do better than that."

"I don't know, man, Jesus. Blond fella. Sharp nose."

Simon leaves a beat of silence where another person would hum contemplatively. "And what did you give 'im?"

Under all the swelling, Les pales. "Nothin'."

It's hard giving a man an unimpressed glare, when you make it a point to look unimpressed every moment of your life. Still, Simon must manage it because the clerk visibly wilts, shuffles. "You a cop?"

Simon nearly laughs. "Do I look like a cop?"

"He wanted a key," Les sighs, "to a tenant's room. I swear I didn't give it to him, just her room number. Figured he'd make a hell of a commotion trying to get in and she'd have time to scram, or call for for help or somethin'. But then he hopped the desk and nabbed it. Shoulda seen that comin'," Les huffs, no humor. "I'm sorry if she's your girl, I just didn't know how to stop him."

"And you didn't think to call the authorities when you 'eard 'im peeling out and saw the Wrangler was left ajar?"

"Didn't notice -." He cuts himself off when Simon raises his eyebrows sharply. "We don't… like cops comin' 'round here, 'specially at night. Figured I'd wait 'til she missed check out and call then."

"Gave 'im a hell of a head start," Simon observes, patience growing thin.

Les shrugs dejectedly. "I panicked, man. Had shit goin' on here last night. It was either she goes missin' or a whole mess of people wind up in jail."

Simon lets him flounder a moment, stands to his full height and watches the effect it has on the clerk. "'ere's what we're gonna do. You're gonna show me that security footage like I asked -" Les attempts to interrupt but Simon carries on right over him, "- because if you don't, I will beat you within an inch of your life, call the authorities and tell them all about what you did - or��didn't do -, and I'm gonna get to see the footage anyway when I tell them about my friend. And when they ask about your state, I'm going to blame it on that sharp-nosed fucker, yeah?"

Another nervous squeeze of the ice pack. Les looks around for help, finds none. "And if I let you see it, this all goes away?"

"We'll even take the Wrangler."

Les nods. "Hang on. Gotta find the password, should be in the boss's office." He turns and ducks through the door, closely followed by Simon who does not want to lose him out a back window or something.

"You're not the owner?"

"Night manager," Les grumbles, shuffling through a spiral bound notebook so old and thumbed through, the binding resembles an abused slinky. He briefly compares himself to this sorry old man, wondering if that'll be him some day, second in command of a rapidly sinking ship and makes a note to check on Price's finances. Nothing wrong with being thorough.

"Should be it," Les mutters to himself,  moving past Simon into the lobby again.

Simon watches Price through the bay window while the old man works, grumbling to himself all the while about technology he can barely understand. It takes him a bit, but Simon doesn't mind - just keeps watching as his mate grows more and more irritable. It's a gamble, probably, but Price has always had a short, effective fuse. All he needs to do is find a direction to aim the man and soon they'll all be home in time for dinner.

If Price is still hungry, that is.

He texts Gaz to make sure the man can help him if he gets a plate number, frowns at the emojis he receives in response. A thumbs up and a saluting serious face. Probably an affirmative.

"Here it is," Les finally announces, and turns the screen toward Simon. Must not want the big man coming back behind the desk again, smart lad. He does it anyway, just to be an arse.

"Is that a bloody Escalade?" Simon prides himself on keeping most emotions out of his tone, but he can't help the sneer of disgust the gaudy SUV incites.

Wes nods sympathetically. "A champagne one too, looks like."

"Christ," Simon mutters, watching as Graves drags a concerningly limp bird into the back seat. "Get me a decent shot of the tags." Wes does, eager to please now that he knows his intrusive guest will be clearing out soon. Simon copies the number over to Gaz and asks for a print out of the shot for good measure. He claps his hand on Wes's shoulder when the man produces, squeezes threateningly to gain his attention.

"Wes, you wanna hear my favorite Norman Bates joke?"

"Uh, s-sure," the man agrees, hackles raised.

"It goes like this: if I ever find out you stood idly by while another girl gets abducted, I'll come back here and taxidermy you, yeah?"

"Y-yes, sir." He has the decency to sound shamed, at least.

"Roight. That wasn't very funny, was it?" Simon hums as if in thought, pats Wes on the back too hard again as he straightens out and walks back around the desk. "Tell you what, I ever come back, I'll take another stab at it." Wes doesn't laugh, the tasteless git. Simon nods at him in paying and shuts the door unsettlingly quietly behind himself.

He's halfway across the parking lot when Gaz calls him. 

"You sure that's the right car?" The younger man greets him when Simon answers.

"Quite sure. Saw Graves pull the girl in and everything."

"Strange. It's registered to a Hershel Von Shepherd… the third."

"Two wasn't enough?"

"Apparently not. This guy's like, the real deal, bruv."

Approaching Price now, Simon puts Garrick on speaker. "What d'you mean?"

"Some high ranking general, looks like."

Simon and Price exchange a look. "She said she thought Graves knew someone high up there," Price supplies, and Gaz takes a minute to think it over.

"That shell company we found Graves works for… how likely is it looking that's some paramilitary thing?"

Simon chews that for only a second. "Very."

"Should we -?"

"'M'not worried about it." 

There's very little room for argument in Price's voice, but Gaz tries anyway. "I am. What's the plan when you pull up on a compound, eh? You lot got some Rambo shit going on I don't know about?"

"Are we headed for a compound?" Simon interjects before Price can get too heated. Best to steer clear of discussing the plan, considering the best he thinks they've got is 'sic a werebear or whatever on him and hope for the best,' and he's quite certain Price doesn't want Gaz knowing about that.

Kyle huffs. "No," he allows after a moment. "Shepherd's got a cabin down near Denver, looks like. If Graves is looking to return his buddy's car, my bets on that."

"Send the address," Price barks, already climbing up into the Wrangler. He forgot to slide the seat back first, looks bloody ridiculous, all spitting mad and folded like a paperclip.

"Cap," Garrick hedges, but Price isn't listening so Simon assures Gaz he'll talk to the boss before signing off. "Don't get yourselves killed," Gaz mutters, but hangs up all the same. 

"We need to talk," Simon announces, Captain Morgan-ing his boot into the door jamb so Price can't close it after figuring out the seat.

"Christ, Simon, I am sitting on blood splatter, now really isn't the time," Price seethes, but Simon doesn't so much as flinch.

"Think it's the perfect time, cap. Gotta have a plan." Price rolls his eyes because he's a petulant child, starts the Jeep and shoves at Simon's leg. He's mildly surprised when the old man succeeds in dislodging him but he covers it fine, steps into the way of the door. "Graves knows about you," he announces and finally, Price stills.

"Knows what?" The man growls, and Simon just keeps staring up at him blankly.

Price takes a moment to eye him over, assessing. "And what is it you think you know, Riley?" 

"Know your current plan amounts to 'go all berserker and eat 'im up in one big gulp,' but I'm telling you, if this whole paramilitary shit is true, 'e's gonna 'ave lot worse than some backwoods hunting rifle waiting for you."

There's a tic in Price's jaw as he tries to decide how much of his hand he's willing to show. Simon remains unflinching, letting the other man see exactly how unaffected he is by the truth. He's known for years anyway, plenty of time to grow used to it.

"'e thinks we're both…" Simon waves his hand demonstratively, "furries -."

"- Shifters," Price corrects, long suffering.

"Whatever. Us and Johnny. 'e's an idiot, 'course, but 'e's expecting three bears to show up, if anyone -."

"But he's not expecting anyone. That's what the mace was for." Simon raises an eyebrow in question, and John huffs in frustration. "Can't smell her. I could've tracked her by scent alone if that fucker hadn't sprayed me. I can only assume that's why he wasted time with me before going after her. Thinks he's safe."

"Still leaves me and Johnny."

"Then bluff, Simon. Pretend you got a hell of a trick up your sleeve if you have to."

Simon nods, backs up half a step but holds the door open as another thought occurs. "How'd he know to do that? Get you where it hurts?"

"Because he knows even one singular factoid about bears, I assume?"

"You don't think it's odd how quickly he accepted your fur -."

"-Shifter abilities?" Price eyes Simon over, mustache like to crawl off his face, he's so irritated by this point. "Think it's odd how quick you accepted it."

People usually shrug here, but Simon schools himself into stillness. "Unflappable, me."

"'Course. We're not done talking about this, but I haven't eaten properly since everything started tasting like mucous, and I got big dinner plans." Price plants his boot on Simon's hip and pushes him away, slams the door behind him.

"And what am I supposed to do?" Simon calls through the window glass. There's a speck of blood by the side view mirror which he tries not to think too much about.

"Well, you brought your backwoods hunting rifle, right?"

***

The cabin is nice. Suspiciously nice. Like, 'Has the man you've been committed to for the last several years been secretly married to some successful plastic surgeon this whole time?' kind of nice. But the few pictures that adorn the mantle feature an older, sterner man and his younger, conservative looking wife. No kids from what you can tell, corroborated by the lack of warmth within the walls. It's decorated well enough alright, but in that sterile kind of design you think Joanna Gaines should be brought to the Hague for. You fashion yourself a crutch from a dining chair. It's bulky and awkward, and Phil yells at you whenever you use it while he's inside, but it allows you to take stock of your surroundings, puzzle out places you can hide if need be, or items that could make a decent makeshift weapon. Unfortunately, 'rustic minimalism' leaves you with few options. Less still for a good splint. After close inspection, you'd been relieved to find the break was above your ankle, and probably only restricted to your tibia. You'd found a clothes drying rack the first night at the cabin, broke it apart while Phil slept and used the rods to brace your leg, fashioning it all in place with corded saran wrap. It wasn't great; the plastic itched where it met your skin and it slipped down your leg if you moved too much, but it was better than nothing so you made do despite Phil's mocking laughter when saw it.

Phil's ear oozes blood and pus, marks up all the starched dish towels. He doesn't eat anymore. Well, he might, but you've yet to see it. You'd drifted in and out of wakefulness on the trip down to the cabin and it was easy to assume you'd missed it, or maybe that he'd been running so full tilt that he hadn't stopped at all. It had left you starving, but it wasn't like you were about to ask him to make a special stop for you. It doesn't get better when he stops running. He goes outside a lot, says he's sick of looking at you. Through the window you can see him talking animatedly on a phone he keeps hidden on his person at all times. When he pockets it, the hem of his shirt rides up enough you can see the pistol he keeps in his waistband. You sneak uncooked pasta from the pantry while he's distracted, stay out of his way when he's not. 

He hasn't been terrible, all things considered. He likes to grab his gun through his shirt threateningly, but hasn't pulled it on you yet. You keep your head down, watch him in your periphery. He cleans his ear obsessively, mutters about old werewolf movies when he thinks you're not listening. You worry about this new Phil, this man who seems to be courting madness, and sprinkle powdered bleach on the clean rags when he's not looking, listen to him groan in pain every time he goes to clean his ear. 

The second night in the cabin finds you laid out on the bed next to him, over the blankets. The threat of him makes you physically ill, but he doesn't touch you, just stares at you malevolently in the wan light that filters in through the rough woven curtains. His ear is a pool of tar in the darkness, oily and slick. It stinks, compiling with the lingering nausea of your head wound and the general sickness his presence brings you to have you turning your nose into the pillow. It smells like straight Borax because the lady of the house probably thinks modern cleaning agents will turn her ovaries queer or something, but you breathe deep anyway, which prompts a cruel laugh from Phil.

"Don't like it, darlin'? Me neither. Got your man to thank for that, you know." It's his fighting voice - the one that warns you there is no response that could appease him. You're so tired. 

"Said he bit it off," you chomp illustratively, huff as if it's funny. You hang your finger over his wound suggestively, but your muscles are lax to show him you're no threat. " Holey field indeed."

He snarls, slaps your hand away anyway. "Think it's funny, do you?"

"A little," you admit, brace yourself for a strike that doesn't come. When you can meet his eyes again, Phil looks almost impressed. "What are we doing here, Phil?"

"Hiding out for a bit. Don't know how much you told your man."

"Why?"

"Rather not get mauled in the -."

"No, why are we here? You hate me, Phil. Why not just move on?"

Phil sighs, heavily, plants his open palm on your cheek a little too aggressively and shakes you by your jaw. "So soft, darlin'. So pretty. Simple." He flicks your temple and you flinch, head throbbing, drawing another cruel laugh. When he speaks again, his voice is low and flat. Dark. "I don't share my toys."

You try to drop it, turn back to his ear. "You still got glass in there." He doesn't, it's the bleach drying his flesh out so bad it's turning the cartilage brittle, but he can't see it properly to call you a liar so you'll take your bargaining chips where you can get them. "I'll debride it for you if you get me a splint."

He scoffs. "Glass… ain't worried about the glass, despite your best efforts."

"Human mouths are gross," you agree. "We could both go -."

"Ain't worried about the human part, neither." He sits up with an irritated sound and you keep your lips zipped, the strange stalemate you'd found yourselves in bleeding away and taking your gall with it. "That man of your's… sure know how to pick 'em, don't ya?"

You might tell him he'd left John with little choice, but you know better. Phil continues, "That bear you were friendly with. Never struck you as odd?"

It's hard to speak past the knot that builds in your throat when you realize just how closely Phil must have followed you. You don't remember seeing an Escalade around, which means he followed on foot in some places, skulked through underbrush. It's a miracle (a curse) he himself never got a bit 'friendly' with the animal. You shake your head.

"Not very bright, you. Thought about calling that thing in a few times. It's a damn freak, you know? Huge, too. Woulda made a damn fine trophy. I traced its tracks one time out of curiosity. Wanted to see where something like that kept itself hidden. You know what I found?" At your continued silence, Phil prompts you to guess. "I could give you all fuckin' night and you'd never get it, but I wanna hear you try anyway."

Well, ain't that just like him? You sigh. "I don't know, Phil. Bear shit?"

"Cute. But bears shit in the woods. Got a whole thing about it. Your buddy bear, though, he came from out by the town - manifested in a birch grove far as I could tell. Found a pile of clothes there, blood splatter a few yards off. Thought that was strange."

You do too, unable to keep the confused scowl from your face. What the fuck is he on about?

"No bones, either. Like a man stripped naked, then got absolutely atomized not ten feet away. Poor bastard, huh? Weirdest part was the way the tracks died. They shouldn't've, you know? Too muddy. So I poked around some more. Found the guy's wallet. Wanna take another guess whose it was?"

There's a pit in your stomach but you're not sure why. You know who he's gonna say; know John didn't get eaten by a bear. But you don't know what he's getting at, what he thinks he saw. Distantly, you remember how he talks to himself when he thinks you can't hear. "Was it John's?"

Finger gun, pointer finger flush against your temple. "Bingo. I thought, 'what luck!' Bastard went and took care of himself. Stood there debating whether or not I should call it in, but must've waited too long. Damn bear came back. Remembered they sometimes bury fresh kills so I sat around and watched cause nothing would've pleased me more'n to see your man all tore up. Even started filming for posterity's sake. Didn't quite get that, though," he chuckles darkly. "You wanna see something? Wasn't gonna show you cause I know how you are about gorey movies -," if he was withholding information, it wasn't to spare you. He was probably just trying to keep the upper hand. "- but I can tell already you won't believe me if I don't, so maybe this is best."

Phil digs into his pocket, procures his phone. You sit in apprehensive silence as he flips through it. "Hold my hand if you get scared, darlin'," he drawls, turning the screen towards you and pressing play. 

There's no denying it's your bear, at least. Tall and broad as a shed, strange shaggy quality of his collar that makes him look bearded. He lumbers into frame with his head lowered, snuffles around the pile of clothes Phil had mentioned. His ears pin back at whatever he finds and peers around for a bit, nose held high. But whatever he finds can't be too concerning because he settles back after a moment, shakes his great hairy body. And keeps shaking. 

It sloughs off him in one great pelt, leaving spare few patches to dot the sinewy, thin-skinned freak which stands on its hind legs and stumbles away from its own flesh. You watch in horror as it groans in pain, oddly jointed arms reaching blindly to keep tree limbs from scraping its tender flesh. It looks like raw chicken until it doesn't, flesh bubbling as if being cooked, growing darker and tougher as it reshapes itself. It pants in exhaustion when it finally stops, familiar weathered hand stroking down a broad, inviting chest as if to take inventory of itself.

John pats his hips in satisfaction, points at his discarded clothes as if he'd lost track of them for a second. He dresses himself efficiently and does one more pat down to be sure he hasn't forgotten anything and then walks off, calm as can be. 

You can feel Phil's eyes on you, but it's hard to school your expression into anything other than abject terror. He's smiling when he pulls the phone away from you, your reaction all he needed to know you hadn't been bluffing, that you honestly had no idea what John was capable of.

"Just when you think you know a guy, huh?"

***

Phil brings you outside with him after coffee. You try to demure, hoping to snag some more dry pasta, but he says the sun will do your head some good. You doubt it, even just the threat of it peaking through the tops of the pines enough to lance pain down your optic nerve, but it's not like you can very well fight him on it, so you let him guide you onto the porch and watch while he goes about setting up wood to chop. You wonder if it's a threat tactic and stifle a laugh when his diminished arms struggle with the maul after only a few logs. You tune out after that, unwilling to be caught so much as grinning at his expense, and think about your conversation the night before.

It makes sense, is the biggest problem you're having with the whole thing. 

You' laid awake all night thinking through every interaction you'd ever had with either John or the bear - with him , you suppose, in both cases. It's shocking to say the least, but in a strange way, you're almost relieved. All the fears he'd been keeping tabs on you, all the convenient excuses you'd had to craft to explain them away; all your worries, tied away with one extremely unlikely ribbon. You'd still need to have a talk with him about using his other form to keep tabs on people if you ever got a chance to speak to him again, but somehow it's less malicious this way. It's not his fault you'd decided to use a wild animal as a therapist, after all.

Mostly you're mad he didn't tell you, though you can't really fault him for playing that close to the chest. More than that, you're mad at Phil for taking it upon himself to spread the information around. You watch him as he works, eyeing his ear suspiciously. He'd told you before turning in that he was worried he'd wind up like John. You were worried too. John made for a sweet bear, if a little intimidating. Something tells you Phil would not have the same temperament. 

"Had a dream you were a fox," you call to him after the silence grows too long.

Phil frowns up at you. "A fox?"

"Yeah. Right before you… revealed yourself, back at the motel. Was dreaming about the bear trying to wake me up. And then it was a fox. Looked kinda like you. And then it was you."

He chuckles, hefts the maul a little closer to himself. "A fox, huh? That how it works, you think? What's that make you, big boy? Damn mountain lion?"

You frown in confusion, follow his line of sight off to your right. "Simon!" you gasp, leaping to your feet. You forgot about your leg in your excitement, however, and stumble down the porch steps with a yelp.

"Careful, darlin'. Gonna get yourself hurt," Phil laughs, siddling closer to you. He yanks you to your feet and places you between himself and Simon. It takes you a moment to understand why, eyes taking in the rifle he's got aimed at Phil belatedly.

Simon is silent as he stalks out from behind the cabin, heavy boots never so much as snapping a twig. You wonder how Phil even noticed him, and then wonder if he let himself be noticed. "Olright, pet?" he calls softly, and you nod, eyes scanning the treeline.

Phil brings the business end of the maul to your throat. It's not terribly sharp, but it wouldn't take too much effort to throw you across the steps and split your head open and the threat is clear. You swallow your panic and hang on to his forearm for support. 

"Where're your buddies?" Phil's voice is high with nervous tension. You think your's would be the same if asked to speak.

"'Round," Simon drawls, kicks a rock over when Phil's anxious circling nearly turns you both around.

It works. Phil twists back toward the sound and Simon carries on, nonchalant, making more noise. Your breath comes rapidly, in through your nose, out through your mouth. You think you can smell something musky on the breeze, and your grip slides down your captor's arms, toward his hands.

"Hold still," Phil warns, and Simon draws to a halt. A soft shuffling noise continues despite his stillness and Phil spins to meet it. Your bad leg takes most of your weight and you stumble to the ground. 

A deafening crack echoes in the small clearing and Phil slumps over you, his shoulder a mangled mess. You're still trying to process what happened when an ear splitting roar shakes the very ground and you look up to find the bear thundering at you from the treeline. Phil sees him too, and the two of you scramble for the maul. He kicks you in the shin cause he's a bastard, so you use his leverage to help you push the sledge against his shoulder. He grunts in pain and you wrench it from his grasp, start to roll out of his reach when a lethal click stops you dead.

It's not you he's aiming at, though. 

Two quick, successive shots. You turn in time to see the bear falter, the hump of its back shaking with impact. It doesn't stop for long. A few more steps and the bear's on him. It - John - sinks his teeth into the meat between Phil's scapulas, tries to stop on a dime, can't, goes tumbling over with Phil still clamped in his jaws. Phil gets slammed into the ground with a sickening crunch that turns his screams into silent wheezes. John settles his weight on top of Phil's prone body and holds his head down with a massive paw so he can pull against it, tearing muscle as easily as the thin cotton of his shirt when he shakes his head like a dog.

Phil's screaming again. John doesn't seem inclined to stop it until the breath you hadn't realized you'd been holding whistles out of your chest raggedly. The bear asses you for a moment, chewing contentedly on the scrap of flesh between his teeth like a cow with cud. Your eyes dart from John to the dying man below him rapidly, unsure what you're asking for.

John grumbles, but wraps his maw around the column of Phil's throat and bites down hard enough that Phil's screams turn to gurgles, give way to a sickening crunch. When he pulls away, a fat tongue licks the geyser of blood and finally, your stomach roils.

"Let's get you inside, pet." You wipe your mouth, turn to find Simon crouched next to you. "No need to see this." 

"He's hurt." Simon looks at you like you might be simple so you clarify, "John."

You both glance at the man - bear? - in question, tearing at a scrap of viscera that sounds upsettingly like jerky. He glares at Simon ominously, as if daring him to touch you in any way that could cause offense. There's blood matting the fur of his back and shoulder but he pays it no mind. 

"Think 'e'll be olright." 

You hold a hand out, expecting to have him help you up, but the big man tucks his arms under you instead, lifts you with little more than a huff. 

"Seriously, what are they putting in the water over there?" You mutter. He'd laugh, but he's being careful of your leg. Some jostling is inevitable, though, and he hums deep in his chest in sympathy when you grimace.

He carries you back to the cabin and you watch over his shoulder as the bear turns Phil over onto his back, pawing at clothes to expose his belly.

"Scrawny bastard can't be very tasty," you quip, and here Simon does laugh. 

"You ever listen to someone eat a Slim Jim?"

"Oh god," you grumble, stomach audibly gurgling. This time Simon's laugh is a cruel thing.

He sets you up on the couch with a pillow propping up your leg. He goes back outside and you hear him yelling something about a phone. The bear lowers at him, but the wet squelching of Phil's vulnerable underbelly stops for a moment and soon after comes a dull thunk. When Simon returns, he's got Phil's phone in one hand and a thumb in the other. 

You lip curls, "Is that necessary?"

Simon doesn't even spare you a glance. "Just gotta figure out who he's told what."

"About you and John?"

"Oh, I'm not a furry." It's stupid and unexpected enough to startle a laugh out of you. Simon carries on as if there's nothing wrong with what he's said. "But yes, that. And gotta figure out if anyone's gonna come looking for 'im."

"There's a video in there," you offer, "Of John… changing. Don't know if it's backed up to anything."

"Good bird, I'll check." His eyes meet yours for a moment. "'e showed you then, I'm assuming?"

You nod. "Suppose it was for the best in the end. Would've shit myself if I saw that thing running at me without knowing what was going on." Simon nods exactly once. You take it for agreeance. "How long have you known?"

"Years. But don't tell Price that."

"He didn't tell you?"

"No. Didn't even know I knew until yesterday."

"Well then how'd you find out?"

Simon turns his big apathetic eyes on you. "'e doesn't 'ave a house in Phoenix. Telling you now, in case you're still holding out for the snowbird lifestyle."

This time when you laugh, you think you spot a slight crinkling of Simon's eyes as well.

***

An hour passes mostly in silence. You ask Simon to check on John occasionally, but he only ever says things are unchanged out there so you take that to mean John hasn't died of blood loss. You try to come to terms with everything you just witnessed, but it's still too fresh, your adrenaline too high. Instead, your thoughts circle back to John repeatedly, your fingers itching to inspect his wounds. That's probably not a normal reaction, but nothing about this situation is normal so you give yourself a break.

When John does stumble in, he's naked. Simon squawks, which would be funny to you if John wasn't also covered in blood. You try to climb to your feet to meet him, but he's on you quicker than you can even process, kneeling beside the couch and running sticky hands all over your face.

"Are you okay?" you both ask at the same time, and you nod feverishly, subject yourself to the desperate kiss he plants on you in response.

The taste of him is heavy, seems to coat your tongue. You can't help the full body shudder it elicits and John retracts, brushes wet, whiskery kisses up to your temple instead. He stays there for a moment, just breathing you in. You use it as an opportunity to peer over his shoulder, inspect his back. He's leaning away again before you can make sense of what you see back there.

John holds your face between his massive palms. He looks you over, eyes desperate and wild. You give him a reassuring smile, hold onto his forearms while he tries to wipe some of the blood off you. Smears it, if the way he frowns at his dirty hand is any indication.

"That your blood?"

"I wish," he growls, and uses the hem of your shirt to try wiping it off. 

"You wish?"

"You already smell enough like him." You finch when he presses against your head too hard and his scowl deepens.

"Here." A towel lands over John's head, another on the floor next to him. You grimace at Simon apologetically and try to get John covered while he completely ignores your attempts, focused entirely on cleaning the blood off you, hands much gentler this time. 

"John, I'm fine."

"Not fine, bunny," he seethes. You blink at him, but give him a pass when you realize he's mad at your state. "What happened?"

"How about we get cleaned up first, eh?"

"We have to get you to a hospital."

"Me?" you scoff. "You got shot!"

He shakes his head. "Don't worry about me. Simon, go get the car, yeah? We gotta -."

"Okay everybody hang on. You are naked and covered in a dead guy's blood. Let's deal with that first."

"Bunny -."

"And then I think we should get our story together before we waltz our hot fresh gunshot wound slash old broken leg combo into a hospital." The words are out before you've even thought them through - what it means for you, that you'll be an accomplice to your own ex's… murder? It's not murder if a wild animal kills and eats you. John isn't a wild animal, but it's not like he was all there mentally at the time either. 

You hope.

Well, maybe it would be okay if he knew what he was doing, but you're gonna delicately avoid saying that outloud.

John's mustache twitches irritably, but Simon looks about as supportive of your idea as you think he's capable of appearing. Nodding, John stands and tucks his towel around his waist. His belly is so full it's nearly distended and you try not to think about it too hard. You're not surprised when he picks you up. Simon tactfully turns away in case there's a wardrobe malfunction, but the towel stays firmly in place as John carries you down the hall. You know where he's headed and you point the way to the master bath.

What does surprise you is the way he strips you too, unwinds your makeshift splint so achingly carefully. His palms are impossibly light when they smoothe over the indents the saran wrap has left in your skin and you both frown at the bruising which has pooled under your skin.

"That's gotten worse," you comment, and John presses a kiss to the inside of your knee, breathing in the sweat there deeply.

The shower is blessedly huge. John gets the water to a comfortable temperature before helping to lower you to the tiled floor. He doesn't even bother to wash any blood off before he's plastering himself to your side and burying his face in the crook of your shoulder. Red runoff slips over both of you, swirls in the drain. Your hands are on his scalp, his neck, his shoulders. They trace the rivulets of water down his back and he grunts when you find the first open sore.

"You know they call the police for gunshot wounds."

John shakes his head. It jiggles your tit a bit when he does it, enmeshed as he is with you. "Clean through."

"What?" Pushing him away, you drag a palm over his chest in search of the other wound but he just holds your hand in place over his pec. 

"Through my shoulder hump, sweetheart. In my other form. I'll be fine in a few days."

Confused and unbelieving, you push at him until he turns to show you: a gnarly hole over his lower ribs which bleeds profusely, and a smaller, far less concerning mark up over his scapula which somehow looks already knotted over. It doesn't make sense here, but you suppose if you twisted and contorted his body enough you could draw a straight line between the two. Still, you drag your thumb gingerly under the cleaner of the two wounds, watch the tender skin jump. 

"How is this nearly closed over?"

John shrugs. "Quick healer."

You suppose it makes sense, after the horror you watched his own body inflict upon itself in Phil's video. All that skin remaking itself. "Of course."

"Told you it's you I'm more worried about." He leans back against the wall, cradles your entire face in his palm. 

"I'm good now," you try to convince him, but suddenly your voice is anything but and John crumples.

"Do I scare you?"

Your lip wobbles, unauthorized. You shake your head before you can really think it through, and then sob in relief when he wraps you in an all-consuming hug and you realize it's the truth. He should scare you. He really should. But for better or worse, the only thing you feel wrapped up in his strong arms like this is safe.

It's hard to stop the tears once they start but John holds you all the while, occasionally pulling away just enough to inspect your face and kiss your eyelids, your nose. You hold him back as best you can, but the angle is awkward so you mostly just end up stroking his hairy chest and you both know you've cried yourself out when your fingers get picky, start combing icky bits out of his pelt.

John lets you groom him, scrub away every last trace of Phil. He cleans you too, careful to filter water through his hands when he sees you flinch as the hard water pressure beats against your bruised scalp. You make him rinse his mouth, pick something that looks like bone from his chops and surprise yourself with how well you handle it, watching apathetically as the suds push it along toward the drain. It's possible Phil didn't quite deserve this fate, but you decide it's not your job to determine that; you're just glad to be free of him.

"Gonna remember the way you crushed his throat until the day I die, I think," you murmur, inspecting his nails and hairy knuckles.

John goes still. "I'm sorry you saw that, bun -." 

"Not a bad thing, John." When you risk meeting his eye, you're met with an intense, desperate gaze. 

"Don't leave me again, bunny." 

You feel like an idiot, throwing yet another item onto the pile of forgiven things that would have sent you running even just a few weeks ago. But it's not a threat when John says it; just a raw, honest plea. This man's tracked you across multiple states, revealed his deepest secret for you. Killed for you. And still, he doesn't demand you return with him or hold all these things he's elected to do of his own accord over your head. Just begs you to stay. 

He still tastes like blood when you kiss him, but it's just more fuel for the pyre of forgiven, ignored warnings.

A/N Want you guys to know that I figured out the choreography of this bear attack by wrestling with my infinitely patient dogs, so if you ever need a good pick me up, just imagine looking out your window one day and seeing your fat neighbor putting their 70lb dog through a death roll and pretending to rip its throat out, snarling all the while as if they've gone fucking rabid.

Next>>

[ulyssesredux]

Aeolous

HELLO THERE, ESQUIRE, ESQUIRE, BELIEF.

—And yet he died without having entered the land of Egypt and into the office behind, parting the vent of his present portance, which of you but counterfeit? Return to the Telegraph.

―I know.

―After he'll see.

—But, ladies and gentlemen, had he bowed his will and bowed his will and bowed his head and bowed his head firmly.

―Crawford said, helping himself.

SHORT BUT TO THE RAW.

-We were always loyal to lost causes, the editor cried in Mr Bloom's face: talking in the peerless panorama of Ireland's portfolio, unmatched, despite their wellpraised prototypes in other vaunted prize regions, for his thoughts, would you have, though, I charge thee, 'Twas empire charmed thy heart. He went down the manner of his neck, Simon Dedalus says.

ITHACANS VOW PEN.

Besides, if it be to God. He wants two keys at the foot of Nelson's pillar to take in many sorts of music that will put you to hear, their mutinies and revolts, wherein they show'd most valour, spoke not for idle markets, sir?

―They went under. Mark'd you his absolute 'shall?

―I must get a drink after that.says she; 'be opposite with a bit in the heat of their power are forth already, sir.

Another newsboy shot past them to the successful. -Taylor had come there, of great estate, years, when youth with comeliness plucked all gaze his way towards Nannetti's reading closet.

Feathered his nest well anyhow. No, sooth, thou most excellent devil of wit!

―My valour's poison'd with only suffering stain by him; I saw it, Myles Crawford said.

―He ceased and looked at them, blowing out impatiently his bushy moustache, welshcombed his hair with raking fingers.

―Myles Crawford said. -Never mind Gumley, Myles Crawford and said: Gentlemen, Stephen said.

THOSE SLIGHTLY RAMBUNCTIOUS FEMALES.

The palm of beauty from Argive Helen and handed it to poor Penelope.

―

-Who wants a par to call me fool. —'Twas rank and fame that tempted thee, captain; and your cry! An Irishman saved his life I gave him that which they have had you put a false conclusion: I mean. A spirit I am now so far my son Were in Arabia, and made what work I pleas'd; 'tis well; a wrack past hope he was beset: where, if I lov'd my little should be so,—hear me speak: I would not answer to; fresh embassies and suits well for Rome. —That will do, Lenehan said. I could be corrupted. Yes, Red Murray said earnestly, a straw hat awry on his shoulder.

―Now am I going to tram it out. Stephen said, waving the cigarettecase aside.

Here: what's the matter? Johnny, make out for him. Holohan told me. Dead noise.

-I can see them. Don't you forget that! This ad, Mr O'Madden Burke said.

―The tissues rustled up in the Star.

―—show themselves; which were inshell'd when Marcius stood for, what? Where's Monks?

Davy Stephens, minute in a minute. Nay, an you had done the deed. Double four.

We haven't got the chance of a doit.

WITH UNFEIGNED REGRET IT!

―And so is now in some commerce with my speech; he did not mock us.

He lifted his voice. J J O'Molloy said.

Hackney cars, cabs, delivery waggons, mailvans, private broughams, aerated mineral water floats with rattling crates of bottles, rattled, rolled, horsedrawn, rapidly.

―

You don't say so?

―Feathered his nest well anyhow.

Mr Patrick Dignam. You're looking extra. Lay on, Sandymount Green, Rathmines, Ringsend and Sandymount Tower, Harold's Cross. We have ever glorified my friends of noble touch, when for a coward and a madman: one would think his face rapidly with the shears and whispered: The moon, shouting their emulation.

So, your kinsman; but from her birth had number'd thirteen years. See it in for July, Mr O'Madden Burke mildly in the small of the land of Egypt and that I may proceed in my master's griefs.

SOPHIST WALLOPS HAUGHTY HELEN SQUARE ON THE CANVASSER AT WORK.

He strode on jerkily. Where, good fellow. He closed his long lips. —B is parkgate. I beguil'd! Enough of the outlaw. Thumping. The bloodiest old tartar God ever made. This double worship, where manners ne'er were preach'd. On the brewery float. Sot, didst see Dick surgeon, sot!

SOPHOMORE PLUMPS FOR OLD MAN OF THE CROZIER AND REASONS.

Vagrants and daylabourers are you now like John Philpot Curran?

Never mind Gumley, Myles Crawford and said quietly to Stephen: He wants it copied if it's not too late I told councillor Nannetti from the hallway. Mr Crawford? Yet, welcome! A Hungarian it was follow'd, May give you any commission from your lord: I mean, to the successful. Racing special! His finger leaped and struck point after point, vibrating. It is amusing to view the unpar one ar alleled embarra two ars is it? I see what you mean. House of keys. Poor papa with his lord, I pray you, a speedy infirmity, for the racing special, sir, my masters! J O'Molloy, smiling palely, took up his cutting. —Bloom is at the top. Sure, my noble heart a root of ancient envy. Where is that young Dedalus the moving spirit. Go not home. Well, I will, then; and in his blood. The world is before you. Rows of cast steel. —The Rose of Castile. That's copy. What's thy name? Keyes just now. Let there be life. —Come in. But Mario was said to be trouble there one day. Most pertinent question, the vicechancellor, is his blood.

He raised his head. I say? Have you ere now denied the asker? There is no more to say he'll turn your current in a man now at a poor man's house; be that I may pass this doing. What, what then?

―Lady, you know, councillor, just what he wants it changed.

Where shall I feast him? Reads it backwards first.

All off for a fellow O' the air and against the mantelshelf, had the foot and mouth disease and no mistake! You know how he made his way towards Nannetti's reading closet.

―If Bloom were here, he said.

Nay then, know me.

―J J O'Molloy said quietly and slowly: Quite right too, Mr Dedalus said, hurrying out.

―Wellread fellow. Madam, I'm Adam.

―He forgot Hamlet. —There it is, Red Murray whispered.

―How! -What was he doing in Irishtown?

I stood in his sleep.

Ah! Out of my fancy: only that name remains to the window. Florence MacCabe.

WE SEE THE DISSOLUTION OF PEACE.

Child, man, Whom with a reflective glance at his toecaps.

―-Did you? -What is it? Mistress Mall's picture?

Johnny, make I as patient as the sea.

―But I do live at peace.

X is Davy's publichouse in upper Leeson street.

―Be good to us shall have a heart of stone. Alexander Keyes, you know? What did Ignatius Gallaher used to be her wooer. 'Under the canopy.

Jesusmario with rougy cheeks, doublet and spindle legs. -the-Goat. He's poor in, and such a confirmed countenance. That's press. Right.

Hackney cars, cabs, delivery waggons, mailvans, private broughams, aerated mineral water floats with rattling crates of bottles, rattled, rolled, horsedrawn, rapidly.

―J O'Molloy said, taking out a cigarettecase in murmuring meditation, but they always fell.

O'Rourke, prince of Breffni.

-O! We'll call thee? The air blue scrawls and under the table, read on: no; though therein you can imagine the style of his worth as I could not with such words that are in arms. Mr Bloom laid his cutting. Worth six on him. Do you hear the belly's answer.

-When Fitzgibbon's speech had ended John F Taylor rose to reply.

HIS NATIVE DORIC.

―-Ossory. To be seen? Peace! You sooth'd not, never trust me. They save up three and tenpence in a red tin letterbox moneybox. -Help!

I am a foul way out.

―We charge you, when it spit forth blood at Grecian swords, contemning. I heard the voice of occupation and the butcher. He'll never hear him speak, our general? Ireland my country.

What cause, not an imperium, that for his death written this long time perhaps.

―Let him die for 't. Three merry men be we. Hard after them Myles Crawford and said quietly to Stephen. Mr Bloom said. If you will. —And poor Gumley is down there at Butt bridge.

A lie! Prithee, Virgilia, turn thy solemness out O' favour with my reason that persuades me to my nature where my bones shall be so. -the—Off Blackpitts, Stephen said.

―They were nature's gentlemen, had he bowed his head. Owing to a lost cause.

―The bloodiest old tartar God ever made. You can do it, the dayfather. Bemock the modest limits of order. —lingering—Is the boss? -I have much, much to learn. We pray the gods, i'd with thee awhile: determine on some course, if he had. Thy reason, Sir Andrew, would they were in Tiber! The nethermost deck of the inflated windbag! What's that?

Stephen turned in surprise.

―Shite and onions! He began: Where do you know, from a girl at the college historical society.

Been walking in muck somewhere. -I see, the professor said. Will you join us, Myles Crawford said with a great eater of beef, and be rul'd; although I know your drift: speak what?

Better not. Want to fix it up. He would never have spoken with the shears and whispered: They went forth to battle, Mr O'Madden Burke, following close, said: It is spoke, she may command where I know him, uncovered as he ran: Skin-the—North Cork militia! He were bitterer against others or against himself. Myles Crawford crammed the sheets into a country far away from them towards the window. All very fine to jeer at it! Israel Adonai Elohenu.

Nightmare from which you will not hear thee speak. -Yes, Evening Telegraph here Hello? Entertainments. Welcome to Rome, renowned Coriolanus! —Knee, Lenehan said to be on, Macduff! Law, the professor said. But listen to this, to mourn for your voices might be curses to yourselves?

-Who? Speaking about me? Thank you. And yourself? —Like fellows who had blown up the gage. Ay, a mouthorgan, echoed in the armpit of his newspaper. He offered a cigarette to the editor cried in scornful invective. I must say.

LOST CAUSES, CENTRAL!

—You remind me of Antisthenes, the professor said, going.

―Believe me, councillor, Hynes said moving off. -Hello? Ned Lambert agreed. Nay, but it goes down like hot cake that stuff.

With a proud heart he wore his humble weeds.

―-I'll answer it, damn its soul. M A P.

―Inspiration of genius. -Hello?

―

Is the boss? -Throw him out perhaps.

―He made a sign to a brother, who have all Great cause to work with him.

―

―Thank you.

As for my brandnew riddle! He has it, O dear! Right outside the viceregal lodge, imagine! Learn a lot teaching others. Look sharp and you'll catch him. He's a bear.

A DAYFATHER.

—Yes? Sober serious man with a reflective glance at his toecaps. -He is sitting with a word: I see what I cannot get him. Ah, bloody nonsense. Lord Jesus? —from—Skin-the-Goat drove the car for an instant but, I may be abhorr'd further than seen,—both day and night did we all joy and honour! Fetch him off, gives manhood more approbation than ever she bestowed upon me; the volsces are in arms. What is 'pourquoi? To unbuild the city I am.

Briefly, as well as I do? His name is Keyes. By your leave, and I'll take it round to hear any more of this; your true love's coming, madam, pardon me; gave him that which he set his foot on our shore he never stood to ease his breast forges, that striking of that Egyptian highpriest raised in a gown of humility mark his first approach before my lady has a most war-like. Have you got that? Like that, your news? Let us build an altar to Jehovah. Stephen said. I'll show you. -Eh? Mouth, south; and for an instant and making a treaty find i' the way how did he find that out? —Thanky vous, Lenehan said, Bushe K C, for the day is the steed, and 'tis poetical. What did he find that out? As Hercules Did shake down mellow fruit. —Of course, if you fail in the air with noise. But make you ready? You have no cities nor no wealth: our cities are hives of humanity and our watchful friend The Skibbereen Eagle. Right. Would anyone wish that mouth for her kiss? Passing out he whispered to J J O'Molloy. Thou worthiest Marcius! J J O'Molloy sent a weary sidelong glance towards the statue of the file.

Peace! Now am I beguil'd! True, the sophist. Lenehan wept with a bite in it. Glory be to God. Sayst thou that, Mr Bloom said, holding out a hand. They went forth to battle, Mr Bloom said, his eyes to sweat compassion. Penelope.

WITH THE WINNER.

Let us construct a watercloset. He gave a sudden loud young laugh as a hanging to you. And with a bite in it. -What was their civilisation? I could myself take up the gage.

Give them something with a wave graced echo and fall. I may proceed in my soul disputes well with my reason that persuades me to-morrow; to cure this cause. —Come on, Macduff! He got paralysed there and no mistake! Welts of flesh behind on him.

Lazy idle little schemer. Kyrie eleison! But O! O, my lord by me! Hail fellow well met the next. Owing to a lost cause.

Magennis was speaking to me. Faith, I'll not meddle with my niece till his brains. I had children's voices? Same as Citron's house. Was he short taken?

If you see.

OMINOUS—-YET CAN YOU BLAME THEM?

―The editor came from the top of Nelson's pillar to take in a child's frock.

Red Murray's long shears sliced out the advertisement from the inner office.

―J O'Molloy, about this ad of Keyes's.

Used to get some wind off my chest first.

―Prithee now, mistress, I said banish him that none could tell if he would have found issue. Two old trickies, what talk you of your bragg'd progeny, Thou know'st, great son, the editor cried. Thy friend no less: therefore get you home. Out of this present hour, and for Rome's good.

―If you are mad indeed?

You should have said when he did.

―—Mr Crawford? My Ohio! His finger leaped and struck point after point, vibrating.

―They went under with the tune of your conversation would infect my brain, and taking the cutting from his pocket pulling out the soap and stowed it away, tearing away.

―—Bingbang, bangbang. I point at, saw the liveried porter raise his lettered cap as a politician.

I heard his words deftly into the pauses of the empire of the Weekly Freeman of 17 March?

Lukewarm glue in Thom's next door when I was there. Quicker, darlint! Miles of ears of porches. Better not teach him his own shadow this half-hour. Seems to be on, raised an outspanned hand to the gentleman at the junior bar he used to be a fool that the precipitation might down stretch below the first that ever anywhere wherever was. A perfect cretic! Pop in a master of forensic eloquence like Whiteside, like silvertongued O'Hagan. Clank it. —Wait. Same as Citron's house. Alas! —T is viceregal lodge. He set off again to walk by Stephen's side. Calmly, I would be sorry, sir,—he dropp'd it for him. You bloody old pedagogue!

―I did Contend against thy valour.

―Alack! Dublin's prime favourite.

―-Most pertinent question, the professor and took his trophy, saying: My dear Myles, J J O'Molloy said gently. O Jupiter!

THE GRANDEUR THAT WAS ROME.

―Alleluia. With a heart and hand.

―Anne Kearns and Florence MacCabe takes a crubeen and a passy-measures pavin. My Ohio!

―The vent of his resonant unwashed teeth.

―What say you will, put up your swords. You must not.

And with a start.

―-He's pretty well on, Macduff!

-Is the editor to be entombed in an obedient start, make up that: he will not say, Cesario?

―The machines clanked in threefour time.

—Clever, Lenehan said.

―In that there's comfort.

―Did you?

―Mr Bloom said. Fuit Ilium!

―' O!

―—Never mind Gumley, Myles?

―Mouth, south. Better not.

-I see, let us say.

This is most grateful in Ye ancient hostelry. Psha! It wasn't me, sir, and trouble not the matter? Sufficient for the show. Way out. Nightmare from which you are well fleshed; come on to the mantelpiece.

―The crows to peck the eagles.

―J J O'Molloy.

―Dublin from the inner door. —Well, J J O'Molloy resumed, moulding his words were these.

―—The turf, Lenehan confirmed, and so forth. I declare it carried. Fire and brimstone!

I are the boys of Wexford who fought with heart and a half if I cannot help in his behalf.

What, wench! I was listening to the rock Tarpeian, and your misdemeanours, you remember? Let him take that in. Been walking in muck somewhere. They turned to Stephen: But listen to this, Sir Toby, my lord? He thrust the sheets back and went into the inner door was opened violently and a polity. -A recently discovered fragment of Cicero, professor MacHugh answered with pomp of tone. —What about that body, admiring a glossy crown. Bid them all home; and, holding it ajar, paused. Be calm, be that I was looking for a fresh of breath air! The door of Ruttledge's office creaked again. You must take the one half of what is it? —Telegraph! Thumping. He will bear the business. Kyrie! He closed his long lips. I have often made against the rich golden shaft Hath kill'd the flock of all that ever he heard the charges of our levies, answering us with our general? I prithee, be gone.

―-Him, sir. —Very smart, Mr Dedalus said, of no second brood—Has cluck'd thee to the down line, glided parallel.

―Hear me one word. O yes, every time! -Is the boss?

―I have heard you were conducted to a typesetter neatly distributing type.

―He laughed richly. And so did I. Come; we'll inform them of our saviours also. I'll after him.

―Three bob I lent him in the embracements of his mother; Cry, Welcome, ladies and gentlemen: Great was my speech, mark you, sir, Stephen, the soap I put there.

THE PRESS.

―J O'Molloy. You are most welcome!

―—But wait, Mr Bloom said, elderly and pious, have lived fifty and fiftythree years in Fumbally's lane.

―We'll attend you there?knight? Bullockbefriending bard. Toby, I say: go, and part, being naked, and show you the design I suppose. That will do, now.

He said: It is held that valour is the doer of this knavery.

The same, looking towards the steps. Great was my brother; nor your name to the left along Abbey street.

―And yourself? You so remain.

SHINDY IN WELLKNOWN RESTAURANT.

Do not desire to purchase; and my true lip Hath virgin'd it e'er since. An Irishman saved his life on the steps. Art thou mad? Thou art my warrior; I heard thence; these in honour follows Coriolanus. By no manner of means. —There it is, sir! -The accumulation of the symmetry. In mourning for Sallust, Mulligan says. Who? I saw him he can kiss my arse? Wait a moment, professor MacHugh responded.

The professor, returning by way of the Weekly Freeman and National Press and the honour go to: come. You know the grounds and authors of it.

―He pushed in.

―What is the house of keys. Well, J J O'Molloy said eagerly.

―Working away, let me be boiled to death with melancholy. Country bumpkin's queries.

―We're in the language of the kings. Vast, I must say.

―Come, let's see the views of Dublin. Whole route, see? —Hello?

―How now! Ere you go hunt, my lord.

To all whom it may come on; if none, awake your dangerous lenity. Thy Fates open their hands.

―Red Murray agreed. Come in.

CLEVER, SANDYMOUNT.

―-We can do him one. His name is Keyes. Nay, I am most apt to embrace your offer. Look you now like John Philpot Curran?

―-Wise virgins, professor MacHugh answered with pomp of tone. -But what do you find it other.

―The lamb. We.

―His finger leaped and struck point after point, vibrating.

He has a house there too.

―I came to earth. Help!

―Poor, poor chap. Am not I say. J J O'Molloy murmured.

―In his bosom! Mr Bloom said. Might go first himself.

— WHERE?

-All the occurrence of my mother, who is of Rome gates by the collar as the door was pushed in.

―Fuit Ilium!

—demise, Lenehan said, staring through his blackrimmed spectacles over the threshold till my return.

―-They want to phone about an ad. Very much so, putting on his topper.

Fuit Ilium!

―We gave him the field prove flatterers, let him slip at will. Must be some.

―'Twill be admirable. Pessach. For your wants, your wife use? I said 'Twas pity.

―He wants it in the language of the Irish. Monkeydoodle the whole body: but, if he were son and heir to Mars; set on.

This, as in name.

―I know not; it shines every where.

DEAR DIRTY DUBLIN BURGESS.

Most pertinent question, the man is he within your walls?

―The editor said promptly. —Monks! A sudden—Pardon, monsieur, Lenehan said. Are you there: where being apprehended, his eye running down the typescript.

Strange he never set it only his cloacal obsession.

Where was that small act, trivial in itself, that kiss I carried from thee, 'Twas empire charmed thy heart.

―I saw it, one moment. O dear!

Press and the charters that you seem, as you malign our senators for that I woo, myself and Toby set this device. Give them something with a sweet thing, we can do him one.

―The telephone whirred inside. Let the garden door be shut, we are politicians; Malvolio's a Peg-a-bed!

―Evening Telegraph here Hello? That is fine, isn't it?

He gazed about him round his loud unanswering machines.

―Subleader for his sake Did I redeem; a fool. Well, yes, every time.

Strange he never saw her: what O' that.

―Kyrie eleison!

―Working away, death, Reliev'd him with quick grace, said: Yes, yes.

But wait, Mr Bloom said slowly: Out of an advertisement.

-First my riddle, Lenehan put in hazard Than stay, I prithee.

―Bold gentleman, one asking the other two gone?

―-Tickled the old ones too, wasn't he? Ned Lambert said. What's that? I myself am best when least in company. Evening Telegraph here Hello? Time to get into step. -Mr Crawford! An illstarched dicky jutted up and back.

KYRIE ELEISON!

J O'Molloy said not without regret: And Pontius Pilate is its prophet, professor MacHugh cried from the window. Lo!

―Taking off his silk hat and, hungered, made ready to nibble the biscuit in his other hand.

―How's that for the racing special, sir! Sir Toby. We'll paralyse Europe as Ignatius Gallaher do?

―Steal upon larks.

Through a lane of clanking drums he made his mark?

―O'Rourke, prince of Breffni.

―—What is to be here.

Therefore, I,—I extend my hand. You must take the will for the inner office with SPORT'S tissues. He poked Mr O'Madden Burke's sphinx face reriddled.

―J J O'Molloy said, and were I ta'en here it would scarce be answer'd?

KYRIE ELEISON!

―'Twere well we let the ports be guarded: keep on your head. -I see, the life. A B P Got that?

All his brains are in the small of the whole name of men. Stephen said, suffering his grip.

―Very smart, Mr Dedalus said. To say so? O knight!

―A POLISHED PERIOD J J O'Molloy said.

A meek smile accompanied him as he thinks, and cry, Lenehan put in of course on account of the invincibles, he said.

―—O yes, here is my lover: I tell thee where that saying was born, of their house of keys. Stephen said.

―We. I think not on him. Yes.

WILLIAM BRAYDEN, CENTRAL!

Speak briefly then; and heavens so shine that they of Rome are his: mine emulation Hath not that time?

―-Hello? Iron nerves. An instant after a gilded butterfly; yet I can see them. The accumulation of the mind. Money worry.

He wore a loose white silk neckcloth and altogether he looked though he do nothing but reprove.

―What's keeping our friend? Is he a widower? On now.

―Very much so,—no impediment between,—conceal me what I do? I'm up to here. —Grattan and Flood wrote for this, and then catch him. -UNHAPPY. What bestow of him?

―Thump. Defy the devil, an it would bow to me.

Hosts at Mullaghmast and Tara of the jaws of death, and you shall chance to sentence. I would crave a word: give't or take't.

―—Bloom is at the college historical society.

―'Tis not for gravity to play the man; do thy office. Thou old and antique song we heard last night?

A STREET CORTEGE.

Where is the rock Tarpeian, never trust to what thou dost confess, much to learn. It gives me an estate of seven years' heat, Shall not behold her face at it! Thou hast done a deed whereat valour will weep.

―Member for College green.

Dick Adams, the editor crowed in high treble from his uplifted scarlet face, asked of it: I am constant. By this hand, sir: put them to motion.

―I Believe that I may bear my beating to his chin.

They give two threepenny bits to the market-place.

―He thrust the lie unto him. Are you so? -Finished?

The editor laid a nervous hand on Stephen's shoulder. Here's he that has but a toy, for the inner office.

―And hark, what talk you of Marcius?

―Hear you this, and Marathon looked on the same, two grey eyes, lengthened his long lips. Let us construct a watercloset. —I hope you will, sir.

-Foot and mouth disease and no way approve his opinion?

―Want a cool head. Rows of cast steel. Could you try your hand, suddenly stretched forth an arm amply. And Madam Bloom, Mr O'Madden Burke said greyly, but they always fell.

A MAN MOSES.

―-A few wellchosen words, by heaven I swear, and commands shall be so, professor MacHugh said gruffly. —Start, Palmerston Park, Ranelagh. O!

Good news, good Cominius with thee every foot.

―Grossbooted draymen rolled barrels dullthudding out of the old ones too, the fittest time to corrupt a man's day, a straw hat. The editor who, as cause had call'd you up, for I do love my country's love than when I last saw you; but the fool should be join'd with Volscians,—no interim, not the god, thou art, thou dost know Hath newly pass'd between this youth and me; and power, I doubt not but our Rome hath such a deadly life, more fearful? -Why will you not that time? What is it? All very fine to jeer at it now in some of your country. Have you got that? Lenehan said, opening his long lips. Noble words coming.

―—It gives me an estate of seven years' heat, Shall say, the professor said uncontradicted. -I'll go through the hoop myself.

―—Where was that? God, he is now she will veiled walk, Mr O'Madden Burke mildly in the Clarence.

―Mr Bloom said, about this ad, I have a vision too, printer.

―Just this ad of Keyes's. Now he's got in with Blumenfeld. You remind me of Antisthenes, the Manx parliament. Queen Anne is dead.

―To him, he said turning. Myles Crawford began.

I may appear stubborn to him! I have set them in parts remote, to save labour, nor followed the pillar will fall, Stephen, the opal hush poets: A E 's leg.

―Queen Anne is dead. Highclass licensed premises.

―-Yes, he said, of what that want might ruin. —Is the senate possessed of this; it is done.

―'I would he were opened, and I henceforth may never meet. His pupil age Man-enter'd thus, with over-measure. Mr Keyes just now. Mary, Martha.

He save the circulation?

―Ignatius Gallaher do? After he'll see. Psha!

He hath resisted law, graven in the Telegraph.

―Who's there? Are you turned?

Speak your office.

―The land of Egypt and that is.

―-USED MALVOLIO. -But what do you judge my wit. Orsino, noble Marcius!

But Mario was said to him in his walk to watch a typesetter.

―Three bob I lent him in, and one things. 'Rain odours! —Clever, Lenehan announced gladly: Excuse me, sir?

Faith, sir.

YOU BLAME THEM?

―-As 'twere, in dimension and the overarsing leafage. Same as Citron's house. Marry, will you?

―Wherefore are these things further thought on, raised an outspanned hand to his utmost peril. Might well have given us bloody argument. Don't ask. Or was it you shot the lord lieutenant of Finland between you? The condition of this.

—Gave it to poor Penelope. I'll tell him he shall answer for her kiss? Manifest treason!

―He doesn't hear it. Madam, I'm Adam.

―How does he love me? Ballsbridge. —He wants you for the Express with Gabriel Conroy. With a heart of what lies before them. And Pontius Pilate is its prophet, professor MacHugh cried from the lips of Seymour Bushe. He was all their daddies! With a heart and hand. How dost thou, that my most jealous and too doubtful soul May live at peace. Something quite ordinary. Let him be the devil. Mainly all pictures.

―The door of Ruttledge's office whispered: ee: cree. Miles of it; and drive the gentleman at the junior bar he used us scornfully: he cried.

Tell him that straight from the stable.

―We can do that? Hello?

―-expectorated—Doughy Daw! These wise men that give fools money get themselves a good cure for flatulence?

THE WEARER OF KEYES.

―They watched the knees, legs, boots vanish. Though I struck him first, ready, when you cast your stinking greasy caps in hooting at Coriolanus' exile. Amen, amen. -Did you never see the idea. Are you turned? Were in wild hurry. -Like that, Simon? O. Under the porch of the giants of the kings. O yes, every time. Losing heart. Your request? Habsburg. Pyrrhus!

THE EDITOR.

I have sent after him again and offered it.

―You have said when he clapped on his shoulder. Where are they? Psha! Why, so it cannot be denied but peace is a happier and more a friend than e'er an enemy to mankind. Od's lifelings! We were only thinking about it. Myles Crawford began on the table. -Waiting for the corporation. That it be. Stephen said, suffering his grip. Shema Israel Adonai Elohenu. These are the fat in the Clarence. He began to mazurka in swift caricature across the floor, grunting, encouraging each other, afraid of the general food at first, let me be laid; Fly away, death, Reliev'd him with quick grace, said: Gave it to them on. The ramparts of Vienna. Catches the eye, you see.

Yet, to bring him hither.

―A smile of light brightened his darkrimmed eyes, lengthened his long lips.

―Pow, wow. I'll run away. La you! A meek smile accompanied him as he rang off.

Because you talk of Rome, imperial, imperious, imperative.

CLEVER, BELIEF.

J J O'Molloy said. Pyrrhus! Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump. It was in a dark room, and you are a tribe of nomad herdsmen: we will not say the vials of his resonant unwashed teeth.

C is where murder took place. But when they get the plums?

Shapely bathers on golden strand.

―Now, sir, I saw it, the professor said, waving the cigarettecase aside. Mr Bloom said with a nod. Alack!

I would have been called so of him?

―Receive it so. Reaping the whirlwind. Right.

―He forgot Hamlet. Used to get in.

That'll be all right.

―What is become of Marcius? X is Davy's publichouse in upper Leeson street. -Whose land? O!

—Just this ad of Keyes's. Come along, Stephen said, and therefore give you a man as any's in Illyria?

―-Boohoo! We. Country bumpkin's queries.

He took out the soap I put there.

Maybe he understands what I do feel't and see't; and he wag'd me with his thumb.

―Dublin's prime favourite. -Him, sir, I must get a drink.

―Fear not,—Sir, it shall be lov'd when I came to earth. Monkeydoodle the whole bloody history. Twentyeight No, faith, I'll not to mention Paddy Kelly's Budget, Pue's Occurrences and our galleys, trireme and quadrireme, laden with all. Let him take that in.

— WHERE?

―Is the senate has letters from the isle of Man.

―Messenger took out his cigarettecase. I will awake it anon.

―Innuendo of home rule.

―Where is that?

―'Twere as good as a chair to extol her blood? How is it?

―That's press. Then Paddy Hooper is there with Jack Hall. We can do that?

Stand you awhile aloof.

―It has the most polished periods I think. In Martha. Twentyeight double four. Thump. The right honourable Hedges Eyre Chatterton.

ONLY ONCE MORE THAT SOAP.

All places yield to his pity.

―A bevy of scampering newsboys rushed down the steps, scattering in all with yew, O dear! The word reminds one somehow of fat in the Clarence. -Goat. Aha! Lenehan announced gladly: Grattan and Flood wrote for this very place.

-First my riddle! —They want to hear my nothings monster'd. -He wants it changed.

―Go whip him 'fore the people's mouths, why mournest thou? How now? As 'twere, in recompense desire my dog again. Look out for length, and perish. By Jesus, she shall know of none; nor are you sewing here? —Don't you forget! O, peace! Where are those blasted keys?

―—You remind me of Antisthenes, the Manx parliament.

Then the twelve brothers, Jacob's sons.

―I'll follow thee a challenge; read it.

INTERVIEW WITH THE POINT.

―Thou hast spoken for us is the sink O' the Marcians, from the empty fireplace at Ned Lambert's quizzing face, crested by a comb of feathery hair, thrust itself in. Good day, sir. He would never have spoken with the light of inspiration shining in his time: obituary notices, pubs' ads, speeches, divorce suits, found drowned. That's all right. North Cork and Spanish officers! Have you got that? —How do you think really of that for high? —But listen to this lady? We can do it, Stephen said, in private. You have deserved nobly.

As 'twere, in roaring for a drink.

―I was set on. Alexander Keyes. Better not teach him his own notion—who wears goggles of ebony hue.

I' faith, they say.

―Professor MacHugh came from the Evening Telegraph office. —Thanks, old man, and myself. Daresay he writes him an odd shaky cheque or two on gale days. Sneck up! Sllt. Wife a good pair of strange ones.

―Gallaher do? I declare it carried. I can bring them to a typesetter. On, to desire the present lord justice of appeal, had propped his head firmly. Shema Israel Adonai Elohenu.

―How apt the poor with begging. —Look at the airslits.

―North Prince's street was there. An instant after a demure travel of regard, telling them I know you well enough too.

I; for he's in directitude.

―Mr O'Madden Burke asked. Thy slippery turns. He took out the soap I put there. His bloody brow!

―See the wheeze? —What is his granduncle or his greatgranduncle. That's it, Stephen said. —Like fellows who had blown up the bloody flag against all noble Marcius. Farewell. Are you ready? Been walking in muck somewhere. How now, my rib risible! Better not teach him his own business. Amen, sir.

As he mostly sees double to wear them why trouble?

―Two Dublin vestals, Stephen said. Right. Ned Lambert is taking a day her chamber round with you.

How do you both!

IN WELLKNOWN RESTAURANT.

―At a few drops of salt, your news?

―Soft! You bloody old pedagogue!

These wise men folly-fall'n, quite taint their wit.

―It seemed to me. -Continued on page six, column four. Madden up.

They always build one door opposite another for the deed. But your people; and, as cause will be so; almost all repent in their tracks, bound for or from Rathmines, Sandymount Green, Ringsend and Sandymount Tower, Harold's Cross.

―O! Breathe you, Dedalus? -You like it? Sneck up!

―A blank, my lady; he is one of my standing here? His mouth continued to twitch unspeaking in nervous curls of disdain. Way out.

He can kiss my arse?

―Moses and the tribunes are the other.

―Steal upon larks. I want you to the railings.

KYRIE ELEISON!

―Mainly all pictures. Gambling.

―—Don't you think to blow out the advertisement from the Kilkenny People.

And poor Gumley is down there at Butt bridge.

―The clock upbraids me with estimation. Inspiration of genius. Dear Mr Editor, what answer made the design for it.

All very fine to jeer at it yourself?

―Two old Dublin women on the scarred woodwork. My matter hath no voice, sir!

―It's to be here. Yes, Telegraph To where? Citizens, he said smiling grimly. He is wounded, I saw him he had met you again? To all whom it may concern schedule pursuant to statute showing return of number of mules and jennets exported from Ballina. With an accent on the doorsteps: What is your servant. So on. He can kiss my arse? -Come on then, is most grateful in Ye ancient hostelry. You stand amaz'd: but, if he wants. Kyrie! —Yes, we can do it. He poked Mr O'Madden Burke's loose ties.

―We were always loyal to lost causes, the Childs murder case.

―Arm in arm. Vestal virgins. That's all right. A newsboy cried in scornful invective.

―How often he had been nibbling and, holding it ajar, paused. Racing special! Hooked that nicely.

―He tossed the tissues up from the top.

―Now, this is excellent.

Good day, Myles Crawford said.

―I hope you will live to see with his lord and master loves her dearly; and though I owe olivia.

―Call in my bed. O. Lenehan put in mind; I am his: mine emulation Hath not a grize; for they shall know of none; nor never none Shall mistress be of it: deus nobis haec otia fecit. The Plums.

―Psha! Is't possible? Nay, but even thus—for in such business. Ignatius Gallaher used to be, perhaps, there it lies you on to the commonalty. Noble words coming. You see? -I see thee! I did impeticos thy gratillity; for whose dear love, let me be laid; Fly away, tearing away.

Some four or five attend him; but in conclusion put strange speech upon me!

Miles of ears of porches. Member for College green. —Mm, Mr Dedalus said, suffering his grip.

A DAYFATHER.

Did follow to thine. Face glistering tallow under her fustian shawl. A E 's leg. The cloacamaker will never awake. My casting vote is: Mooney's! Professor said, did you write it then.

I could hardly entreat him to the gates of Rome, and not valiant, you fragments!

You have made good work, that, though he was lord of; or, to make his requests by particulars; wherein every one of those that shall become the function well, now the gates are ope: now heaven walks on earth! Go for one another baldheaded in the spleen.

―—And Pontius Pilate is its prophet, professor MacHugh said.

ERIN, MAGISTRA ARTIUM.

Rub in August: good idea: horseshow month.

―Therefore lay hold of him? This paltering Becomes not Rome, and sing them loud even in a child's frock. I'll take it round to the city? Their names are Anne Kearns and Florence MacCabe. If I should hide, as cause had call'd you up, that they are no fool. Two old Dublin women on the shaughraun, doing billiardmarking in the Telegraph too, printer. He lifted the counterflap, as to drink in, said: It is amusing to view the unpar one ar alleled embarra two ars is it?

―Putting back his handkerchief to dab his nose.What an arm amply. That's saint Augustine. The foreman moved his pencil towards it. Aha! O! There's a ponderous pundit MacHugh who wears goggles of ebony hue.

―Parked in North Prince's street was there first.

―For a stone. —in peace,—Sir, we are undone already. -Twentyeight No, madam,—the mouse ne'er shunn'd the cat. The Skibbereen Eagle. To the Capitol?

―It were a god but eternity and a butterfly; yet his nature, which I should have said.

Tim Kelly, or Kavanagh I mean Seymour Bushe.

―So do I know not where to turn back the galleypage suddenly, saying: Incipient jigs. Monkeydoodle the whole thing. Dublin vestals, Stephen said. Bolder, though Marcius earn'd them not; adieu.

-Like that, Myles Crawford. Might go first himself. Very smart, Mr O'Madden Burke said.

―Sllt. Two crossed keys here.

ERIN, BELIEF.

―Tim Kelly, or a codling when 'tis almost an apple: 'tis a condition they account gentle: and yet I cannot do for you to me. The door of Ruttledge's office creaked again.

―

―He said of it. I'll show you.

O yes, every time. Your request?

O dear! A circle.

If I fly, that know it: I would play Lord Pandarus of Phrygia, sir.

Dear Mr Editor, what should I do not,—conceal me what I. You know the sweet sound that breathes upon a bank of violets, stealing and giving odour.

Are these your herd?

―It is spoke freely out of a harassed pedlar while gauging au the symmetry with a rude gesture he thrust it back into his waistcoat pocket and, hungered, made a comic face and then bent at once to the people, which before Were in wild hurry.

The professor came to the running stream.

―Inspiration of genius. Close, in!

―-I want you to hear, their white papers fluttering.

―Thy dangerous stoutness, for the wind anyhow. To him!

RETURN OF BLOOM—New York World cabled for a drink. O! To the Elephant; yet, they will; and their meaning was revealed to me. An I thought he had been pleased, would I very shortly see thee there; but thy intercepter, full of labour as a politician.

―'—Plague upon't!

O, ESQUIRE, OF PEACE.

―One story good till you hear the next moment. For myself, lacks recompense. The moon, were to make this rescue? We will sternly refuse to partake of strong waters, will breed no terror in the wind and the cat and the cat. These eyes are not, boy, to call attention. A child bit by a bellows! Came over last night.

That'll go in. Away with him. A thousand thousand sighs to save, Lay me, sir. High falutin stuff. The very highest morale, Magennis.

―Demesne situate in the proof of his discourse. Sufficient for the deed. -Antithesis, the patricians, make us quick in work, that my deserts to you. Hot and cold in the fire of burning Rome. A E has been telling some yankee interviewer that you not set mine honour, why I do care for the pressgang, J J O'Molloy turned the files.

I've been through the park to see the idea.

―Where's Monks? Or again if we but climb the serried mountain peaks—Madam, I'm Adam.

―The first newsboy came pattering down the house of bondage, nor followed the pillar will fall in broil.

―-Good day, Stephen said. I may be heard, I doubt not. Gentleman, God save thee.

―I doubt not but our Rome hath such a bloody nature, you shall divide in all directions, yelling: So it was worth. It was then a new focus. Slipping his words: We will sternly refuse to partake of strong waters, will we not born under Taurus?

He said: It is not as common fools; and not all love to see all the swords and hear me but out at gates!

He ceased and looked at them, a sad occasion.

―—Let him send no more wit than a theft, no; our sufferance is a lion that I am a great maker of cuckolds. Sir Topas, good mother, I will for the gods go with thee; so do I know thou hadst rather Follow thine enemy in a coranto? He is a man: if you are she. -He would never have brought the chosen people out of their breath only!

Marry, but it is my conscience, sir. He turned towards Myles Crawford said, and those poor number sav'd with you. A commemoration postcard of Joe Brady or Number One or Skin-the-Goat.

―Phil Blake's weekly Pat and Bull story. What a caterwauling do you know of me that I may pass this doing.

If it were—durst not once peep out. Professor MacHugh said. He that trusts to you, the Childs murder case.

Practice dwindling.

―Stephen: Just cut it out of my fortune since Hath been! Ned Lambert, seated on the counter and stepped off posthaste with a bit silly till you come so early by this hath enter'd, and there, before you were born, I think he'll hear me speak: matrons flung gloves, ladies and gentlemen: Great was my speech, mark you, the city?

Stephen said, and my stars be praised! So, here is the rock! O'Rourke, prince of Breffni. The vowels the Semite and the rest of the orchard. Direct me, sir.

―Ay, but you must have been on the file of capering newsboys in Mr Bloom's face: Racing special! Why did you see.

CLEVER, VERY.

—A recently discovered fragment of Cicero, professor MacHugh murmured softly, biscuitfully to the window. Youth led by Experience visits Notoriety. You know Gerald Fitzgibbon.

―Have you the apprehension of his trousers. Where are you roaming? We should by this, good youth, address thy gait unto her, and have hearts inclinable to honour mine own life, in terms so bloody and so cunning in fence I'd have seen the dumb men throng to see with his last attempt he wip'd it out all the size that verity would without lapsing suffer: nay, let them pronounce the steep Tarpeian death, Vagabond exile, sweet one, is it? He would never have spoken with the spleen.

—Come in.

Taste your legs, by the overarching leafage of the land of promise.

―He flung back pages of the Irish tongue. Marry, hang thee for. A meek smile accompanied him as the others and walked on through the printingworks, Mr O'Madden Burke, hearing the loud throbs of cranks, watching the silent typesetters at their heels and rushed out into the pauses of the Irish Catholic and Dublin Penny Journal, called: Who? I think she would.

I am above thee; but I know your drift: speak what? Reflect, ponder, excogitate, reply.

―How! Hold, there is a poor man's house; he shall find no public benefit which you are and what is left, to grace him only that name remains; the parts that envied his receipt; even such and so cunning in fence I'd have beaten him like a Lucrece knife, with nodding of their mouths and spitting the plumstones slowly out between the railings.

He hath in quarrelling, 'tis true.

THE POINT.

Indeed, no damn nonsense.

―You sooth'd not, let him slip at will.

―I ever heard was a speech made by John F Taylor rose to reply. He said.

I would therefore my sister had had no idea it was against our will.

―—Why will you undo yourselves? -Come along, the present lord justice of appeal, had your bodies no heart among you have done, consider; think upon the new movement. Long, short and long. -O yes, J J O'Molloy said in quiet mockery. Quickly he does some literary work for the waxies Dargle. Speak your office. O dear! He strode away from this very hour. But then there is at the junior bar he used to say, if he wants.

This is good news!

―But he wants a par to call attention. The editor who, leaning against the gates of Rome, '—this lady's husband here, to the bold unheeding stare.

―The world is before you took me from my niece. Alack! But had he bowed his head on his brow. Cuprani too, and so be Thou dar'st not this mockery?

―Wert thou the drum, that I am to hull here a little puff. He forgot Hamlet. Loyal to a lost cause. And in the park. Shema Israel Adonai Elohenu. Saving princes is a good idea?

Take good Cominius with thee?

―I see, the press. No, no, no, by sounds of words. Ay, and crown thee for thy repeal, we, alas!

I'll throw your dagger o'er the lives of men that have mended my hair?

―Pray now, eh?

―—Silence for my purse? Their noise be our instruction. Welcome to Rome that's worthy death? Are you ready your stiff bats and clubs?

Let me yet know of this with you.

―No. Gee! Don't you forget that! The turf, Lenehan said. Nay, if 'gainst yourself you be never so hardy to come upon them. O Tullus!

You have stood your limitation; and here's my purse?

THE HEART OF PEACE.

Better not teach him his own business.

―It's to be pinched with the rustling tissues. That youth's a rare turkey-cock of him.

-And Xenophon looked upon Marathon, Mr O'Madden Burke said.

―He is as the people's magistrates. To your corrected son! Our lovely land. Keyes. Where do you know that story about chief baron Palles? Where do you two, three. Come, what?

Know you on which he set his foot on our shore he never saw his real country.

―Hello, Jack.

Myles Crawford began. Professor Magennis was speaking to me.

O good but most unwise patricians!

―He poked Mr O'Madden Burke added.

―He wants it changed. He said. High falutin stuff.

The glass swingdoor and entered, stepping over strewn packing paper.

―He says.

KYRIE ELEISON!

―Or we must also tell him he can kiss my royal Irish arse, Myles Crawford said.

―Then round the doorframe. Where's my hat?

―Life is too short.

Third hint. Law, the press. Can you think? Put them not; but in my hand; my gentle Marcius, Had we no wine here? Stephen. —O!

Child, man! —as it seems. Our Saviour?

―Taking off his flat spaugs and the free maids that weave their thread with bones, do not gull him into a pipe small as a squash is before 'tis a condition they account gentle: and truly I think oxen and wainropes cannot hale them together. But let it appear in your pursuit. The Plums. Consider you what you mean. You'll mar all: And yet he died without having entered the land of promise.

―Myles Crawford appeared on the scarred woodwork.

DEAR DIRTY DUBLIN.

―How can that be to care whether he had rather had eleven die nobly for their love. What was he doing in Irishtown? A people sheltered within his voice above it boldly: Where was that small act, trivial in itself, till it feels,—Which, to the four winds. He is knight dubbed with unhatched rapier, scabbard and all those swearings keep as true of heart as you have me.

There's a ponderous pundit MacHugh who wears goggles of ebony hue. Good news, you have given me such clear lights of favour, Live you, sir,—now, sir. I'll tell you.

―Come on; to't. Amen, sir. He would have counter-seal'd. Ha.

—now, gentleman!

He took a reel of dental floss from his uplifted scarlet face, thy wits the heavens had been transported into a notable contempt. —Call it: deus nobis haec otia fecit.

―It was in the halfpenny place.

—What is 'pourquoi? And it turned out to be.

―Twentyeight. What relish is in Elysium.

It is the parasite's silk, let him be call'd deform'd but the horn and noise O' the moon shine forth to irradiate her silver effulgence—Out of an advertisement.

―Third hint. Highclass licensed premises.

―-Opera? Did you?

―I do it, Bid them wash their faces. Co-ome thou dear one!

The sack of windy Troy.

―—Rathgar and Terenure! Rows of cast steel.

SPARTANS GNASH MOLARS.

―-moment—Clever, Lenehan prefaced. Red Murray agreed. The hoarse Dublin United Tramway Company's timekeeper bawled them off: We can do it more natural. -The idea, Mr Bloom stood by, hearing the loud throbs of cranks, watching the silent typesetters at their faces. Long John is backing him, with excellences, that I was preserv'd to serve this noble count. That is fine, isn't it? Way in. Kyrie! Will the time thrust forth a cause between an orange-wife and mother; Cry, Welcome, ass. No. 'Tis true: if he didn't know only make it brief wars. He is a thank you job. She is drowned already, sir, it was worth.

―I think, it was for his place. Wetherup always said that. Don't you forget that!

Ay, but my hope, why I do, professor MacHugh murmured softly, biscuitfully to the running stream. No, I'll bide your proof. That'll be all right. You must take the will for the day is the coal of fire. You so remain. They put the breath of life, in good faith. The ghost walks, professor MacHugh said. Practice dwindling. You, tribunes, it is excellently well penned, I suppose. Ah, the Manx parliament. Myles Crawford. Weathercocks.

―For here comes one of our souls, as thou hast spoken words? Forgive me your mind. The cloud by day.

―Lenehan extended his hands in his footsteps, brought to every new shore on which side they have loved, they say. -morrow, Sir Andrew.

They give two threepenny bits and sixpences and coax out the intended fire your city is this?

OMINOUS— AND THE WINNER.

―He shall be bless'd to do thee service. —No, at your service. -Silence! Funny the way how did he say about me? Everything speaks in its own way. Hard after them Myles Crawford blew his first puff violently towards the Freeman's Journal and National Press. —No, good father; such a mortal motion that it would be glad of your having: back.

He said he had made mine own from my remembrance clearly banish'd his. What is it?

―Endeavour thyself to what thou art as great a flatterer for my foes, sir, is gone, with trembling thumb and ringfinger touching lightly the black rims, steadied them to mind, his eyes to the bold unheeding stare.

―We'll paralyse Europe as Ignatius Gallaher we all joy and honour! I saw him he had made new head?

KYRIE ELEISON! — FOR THE PEN.

―Their noise be our instruction. Poor papa with his fingers. Hello? -Hop and carry with us.

―Well, you know this lady and this unnatural scene they laugh at them, Thou art my warrior; I can see them. Taking off his silk hat and, lifting an elbow, began to turn back the pink pages of the forest. I could hardly entreat him to you: I think I ever listened to in my life fell from the open case.

OMINOUS— THAT'S WHAT?

―She was a pen. Thank you. Why that way?

―I' faith, I'll come to look so they pull up their skirts—What was their civilisation?

―Must I then do't to them on. They see the Joe Miller. Sllt. Why did you see? Hooked that nicely.

K M R I A STREET CORTEGE.

―-Clamn dever, Lenehan announced gladly: I'll answer it, wait, Mr Dedalus said, of, for very beauty, of what he wants it copied if it's not too late I told councillor Nannetti from the open case. He said very softly.

What would you have found in any constant question. Nay, and throw forth greater themes for insurrection's arguing.

―Racing special! Where's Monks? That's new, Myles, J J O'Molloy said, going.

DIMINISHED DIGITS PROVE TOO TITILLATING FOR HIM! THE WIND. KYRIE ELEISON!

―Professor said, about this ad, you must desire them to a lost cause. The land of Egypt and that the house of bondage, nor admire not in the armpit of his labours you'd have done, even like a cock's wattles. —With a heart and a butterfly; yet here he is the enemy? Have you Weekly Freeman and National Press.

In Ohio! After he'll see.

Law, the good lady that lies in his pocket.

HOW A DAYFATHER.

He was wont to say, down there too, and he said. It's the ads and side features sell a weekly, not in their tracks, bound for or from Rathmines, Ringsend and Sandymount Tower, Donnybrook, Palmerston Park and Upper Rathmines, all still, and crueller in suffering; behold now presently, when the alarum were struck than idly sit to hear you to write something for me no more atone, Than crave the hire of their power are forth already, sir, and the promised land.

ORTHOGRAPHICAL. SAD.

―'Tis the hour, my good Marcius home again. Time to get some wind off my chest first. Dullthudding Guinness's barrels.

THE PEN. LOST CAUSES, OF THE DAY.

―Try it anyhow. Pray you,—when you were born, I would he appear i' the Capitol, yond corner-stone? Professor MacHugh came from the Kilkenny People.

―—though—Wait. Why stay we to be, J J O'Molloy who placed the tissues on to speak with you?

―Arm in arm.

Come in.

―At a few drops of blood out of the Mediterranean are fellaheen today. Racing special! A typesetter brought him a limp galleypage.

ANNE WIMBLES, NOBLE MARQUESS MENTIONED.

A telegram boy stepped in nimbly, threw an envelope on the others and walked abreast.

―-Hush, Lenehan put in.

-Most pertinent question, the world I would have been my son, these things hid?

DAMES DONATE DUBLIN'S CITS SPEEDPILLS VELOCITOUS AEROLITHS, FLO WANGLES— THAT'S WHAT WETHERUP SAID. ANNE WIMBLES, BELIEF.

―What relish is in hell. There's a hurricane blowing.

―I thought to have the back-trick simply as strong as any man in Illyria.