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Dear
God
,
I
am
not
a
son
of
a
bitch
.
Please
.
That
sick
happiness
at
George
’
s
retreat
was
more
typical
of
Denker
in
the
play
than
of
Jack
Torrance
the
playwright
.
You
hate
me
because
you
know
…
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Because
he
knew
what
?
What
could
he
possibly
know
about
George
Hatfield
that
would
make
him
hate
him
?
That
his
whole
future
lay
ahead
of
him
?
That
he
looked
a
little
bit
like
Robert
Redford
and
all
conversation
among
the
girls
stopped
when
he
did
a
double
gainer
from
the
pool
diving
board
?
That
he
played
soccer
and
baseball
with
a
natural
,
unlearned
grace
?
Ridiculous
.
Absolutely
absurd
.
He
envied
George
Hatfield
nothing
.
If
the
truth
was
known
,
he
felt
worse
about
George
’
s
unfortunate
stutter
than
George
himself
,
because
George
really
would
have
made
an
excellent
debater
.
And
if
Jack
had
set
the
timer
ahead
-
and
of
course
he
hadn
’
t
-
it
would
have
been
because
both
he
and
the
other
members
of
the
squad
were
embarrassed
for
George
’
s
struggle
,
they
had
agonized
over
it
the
way
you
agonize
when
the
Class
Night
speaker
forgets
some
of
his
lines
.
If
he
had
set
the
timer
ahead
,
it
would
have
been
just
to
…
to
put
George
out
of
his
misery
.
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But
he
hadn
’
t
set
the
timer
ahead
.
He
was
quite
sure
of
it
.
A
week
later
he
had
cut
him
,
and
that
time
he
had
kept
his
temper
.
The
shouts
and
the
threats
had
all
been
on
George
’
s
side
.
A
week
after
that
he
had
gone
out
to
the
parking
lot
halfway
through
practice
to
get
a
pile
of
sourcebooks
that
he
had
left
in
the
trunk
of
the
VW
and
there
had
been
George
,
down
on
one
knee
with
his
long
blond
hair
swinging
in
his
face
,
a
hunting
knife
in
one
hand
.
He
was
sawing
through
the
VW
’
s
right
front
tire
.
The
back
tires
were
already
shredded
,
and
the
bug
sat
on
the
fiats
like
a
small
,
tired
dog
.
Jack
had
seen
red
,
and
remembered
very
little
of
the
encounter
that
followed
.
He
remembered
a
thick
growl
that
seemed
to
issue
from
his
own
throat
:
"
All
right
,
George
.
If
that
’
s
how
you
want
it
,
just
come
here
and
take
your
medicine
.
"