22 December 2009

9' 79" by Thierry Marignac

I’m B.J. I fly like a bullet. I break records the way Casanova broke virgins. One hundred twenty five meters, hard core.
“Another fifty pounds, you’d be Mike Tyson.”
And Charlie busts out his worst fake smile.
But he’s right. I’m like a pack of dynamite.
I’m a bomb.
I tear down the track like a 440 Chevy peeling out.
Never give Charlie the last word.
I blurt, “But I’d rather be a Colt .45. That’s more like me.”
“Exactly. Come see.”
I put on my shirt. I climb in the Jeep. Charlie pulls out. We’re two hundred clicks from Toronto, in the woods. I’m just about the only one training in the camp. There’s only a couple of Soviet runners, competing in the 400, and their coach. I don’t like the shitty commies, but they fill up Charlie’s tubes, the tubes that matter for me. Me, the phenom.
And the commies are better than American faggots.
I’m going to make myself a Golden Boy, and they’re going to help me. . .
This stadium’s my turf. They’ll eat the dust flying off my spikes. Stay at your momma’s place, Carlito. Go back to college. Otherwise, you’re going to eat shit behind me.
Way behind me.

(from Marignac's story about the sprinter Ben Johnson, in

Le pays où la mort est moins chère)

translation (c) me

image via

1 comment:

  1. B.J, I am.
    Freeze ass, because I'm speed.