1408- Menu

On the bed itself was a doorknob menu. Mike sidled up one side of
the bed, being quite careful to touch neither the bed nor the wall, and
picked the menu up. He tried not to touch the coverlet, either, but the
tips of his fingers brushed it and he moaned. It was soft in some ter
rible wrong way. Nevertheless, he picked the menu up. It was in
French, and although it had been years since he had taken the lan
guage, one of the breakfast items appeared to be birds roasted in shit.
That at least sounds like something the French might eat, he thought, and
uttered a wild, distracted laugh.

He closed his eyes and opened them.

The menu was in Russian.

He closed his eyes and opened them.

The menu was in Italian.

Closed his eyes, opened them.

There was no menu. There was a picture of a screaming little wood
cut boy looking back over his shoulder at the woodcut wolf which had
swallowed his left leg up to the knee. The wolf’s ears were laid back
and he looked like a terrier with its favorite toy.

I don’t see that, Mike thought, and of course he didn’t. Without clos
ing his eyes he saw neat lines of English, each line listing a different
breakfast temptation. Eggs, waffles, fresh berries; no birds roasted in
shit. Still—

- 1408, chapter II