By Stephen King
It used to be love at the start sight. From the instant seventeen-year-old Arnie Cunningham observed Christine, he knew he may do whatever to own her. yet Christine isn't any girl. She is Stephen King's final, blackly evil car of terror.
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Extra info for Christine (Signet)
They were staring at him, wide-eyed, as if one of the kitchen walls had suddenly grown lips and started to talk. Arnie looked at them, his eyes odd and white and dangerous. 'I'm telling you, I'm going to have this. ' 'Arnie, the insurance - ' Michael began. ' Regina shouted. She didn't want to start talking about the specific problems because that was the first step on the road to possible acceptance; she simply wanted to crush the rebellion under her heel, quickly and completely. There are moments when adults disgust you in ways they would never understand; I believe that, you know.
He tried the back door on the passenger side, and it came open with a scream. ' I said. 'It's sunstroke, right? Tell me it's sunstroke. ' But I said it without much hope. He knew how to joke, but there was no joke on his face then. Instead ' there was a kind of goofy madness I didn't like much. He didn't even bother to reply. A hot, stuffy billow of air, redolent of age, oil, and advanced decomposition, puffed out of the open door. Arnie didn't seem to notice that, either. He got in and sat down on the ripped and faded back seat.
He looked every bit as bewildered and unhappy as I felt, and I knew an instant of sharp pity for the man. He couldn't even go home to dinner to get away from it; he was home. Here it was a raw power-struggle between the old guard and the young guard, and it was going to be decided the way those things almost always are, with a monstrous overkill of bitterness and acrimony. Regina was apparently ready for that even if Michael wasn't. But I wanted no part of it. I got up and headed for the door. ' That stung me.