Episkopos has free will, I have no will at all, no way to affect the world or my own life. But I get to see it all; every moron mistake and anguished inevitability. Somewhere along the infinite planes of the Ylem, there must be a way out, a way to live and a choice to make that frees us from the grip of Eris, that frees me from this waiting room of raw experiences. I just need to find it.
CHAPTER 9
D ave isn’t surprised to find himself bleeding again. He is prepared even, and seals shut the pen-made wound in his belly with his handy tube of Krazy Glue. Dave had never even seen the kid in school before, but he had heard that he was somebody’s cousin or something, from Newark, where the shit that happened was always a lot fucking heavier than in Jersey City.
“Shit shit shit shit shit,” he seethes through cable-tight teeth. He pinches the flab—Dave was a skinny kid with a paunch, the worst of both worlds—with his blood-smeared left hand and applied the glue with the right, then held the wound shut. He doesn’t need stitches—he wouldn’t
get
stitches anyway. Half a roll of toilet paper is just enough blotter for his injury, his hands, the streaks and drips around the bowl, and the walls of the far stall in the second floor boy’s room, all of which he’d managed to get pretty sticky when he ran in here, book bag and windbreaker flying. The toilet is jammed tight with crumpled red and purple toilet tissue; they float like a mass of abstract origami flowers.
Dave sits still as he can, breathing through his mouth—the floor smells like piss and Ajax—and waits for the glue to set. A comically oversized cock and balls, fireworks shooting forth from the tip, decorates the stall door. “Well,” Dave says to himself, “fuck.”
Outside the stall, a pair of boots, black with thick and useless buckles on the side, march up to and stop before the door. The dusty leather of a trench coat drags behind them. Dave cringes.
“Hail!” says a voice, half-strangled between adolescence and the deep baritone of adult blowhards, on the other side of the door.
“
Occupado
, Tigger,” Dave says.
“I know that,” Oleg says. “Why would I greet an empty bathroom stall?”
“Because you’re crazy? I dunno. Look, I don’t want to talk right now.”
“I couldn’t help but notice a suspicious-looking trail of blood leading right to the door here—”
“Yeah yeah, I know, listen, I’m fine—”
Oleg wasn’t the sort to allow himself to be interrupted; in fact Dave knew he was just the sort of asshole who’d simply start over again even if his question had already been answered, and he did: “I couldn’t help but notice a suspicious-looking trail of blood leading right to the door here—” Dave sighs, but lets him finish, “and I was wondering if you might be in need of any assistance.”
“I said I was fine, didn’t I?” Dave says.
“Indeed you did, but I have evidence that you’re not actually fine.”
The glue sets. Dave reaches up, shifts the bolt of the little lock, and gingerly pushes open the door. Oleg grins widely, like he had just turned to the centrefold in some porno mag. Dave wishes he could kick high enough to knock the fedora off Oleg’s mop of frazzled hair.
“So, you think you can help?” Dave says, nasty like his mother. That edge in the voice.
“Actually,” Oleg says, punching each syllable—ack chew ah lee—like the word was new to him, “I believe that I can.” He snaps the rim of his trench coat and squats to meet Dave’s glassy eyes. “I think it’s past time we taught some of the dirtbags in this school a lesson.”
Dave laughs and laughs. “Oh gawd. What are you going to do? Teach me to kill people with mind bullets?”
Oleg folds his arms over his chest and scowls, trying to look intimidating in his long coat, but he barely manages rumpled. “I’m not the one bleeding,” he says. “Maybe I have resources you lack.”
Dave brings the glue stick to
CHAPTER 9
D ave isn’t surprised to find himself bleeding again. He is prepared even, and seals shut the pen-made wound in his belly with his handy tube of Krazy Glue. Dave had never even seen the kid in school before, but he had heard that he was somebody’s cousin or something, from Newark, where the shit that happened was always a lot fucking heavier than in Jersey City.
“Shit shit shit shit shit,” he seethes through cable-tight teeth. He pinches the flab—Dave was a skinny kid with a paunch, the worst of both worlds—with his blood-smeared left hand and applied the glue with the right, then held the wound shut. He doesn’t need stitches—he wouldn’t
get
stitches anyway. Half a roll of toilet paper is just enough blotter for his injury, his hands, the streaks and drips around the bowl, and the walls of the far stall in the second floor boy’s room, all of which he’d managed to get pretty sticky when he ran in here, book bag and windbreaker flying. The toilet is jammed tight with crumpled red and purple toilet tissue; they float like a mass of abstract origami flowers.
Dave sits still as he can, breathing through his mouth—the floor smells like piss and Ajax—and waits for the glue to set. A comically oversized cock and balls, fireworks shooting forth from the tip, decorates the stall door. “Well,” Dave says to himself, “fuck.”
Outside the stall, a pair of boots, black with thick and useless buckles on the side, march up to and stop before the door. The dusty leather of a trench coat drags behind them. Dave cringes.
“Hail!” says a voice, half-strangled between adolescence and the deep baritone of adult blowhards, on the other side of the door.
“
Occupado
, Tigger,” Dave says.
“I know that,” Oleg says. “Why would I greet an empty bathroom stall?”
“Because you’re crazy? I dunno. Look, I don’t want to talk right now.”
“I couldn’t help but notice a suspicious-looking trail of blood leading right to the door here—”
“Yeah yeah, I know, listen, I’m fine—”
Oleg wasn’t the sort to allow himself to be interrupted; in fact Dave knew he was just the sort of asshole who’d simply start over again even if his question had already been answered, and he did: “I couldn’t help but notice a suspicious-looking trail of blood leading right to the door here—” Dave sighs, but lets him finish, “and I was wondering if you might be in need of any assistance.”
“I said I was fine, didn’t I?” Dave says.
“Indeed you did, but I have evidence that you’re not actually fine.”
The glue sets. Dave reaches up, shifts the bolt of the little lock, and gingerly pushes open the door. Oleg grins widely, like he had just turned to the centrefold in some porno mag. Dave wishes he could kick high enough to knock the fedora off Oleg’s mop of frazzled hair.
“So, you think you can help?” Dave says, nasty like his mother. That edge in the voice.
“Actually,” Oleg says, punching each syllable—ack chew ah lee—like the word was new to him, “I believe that I can.” He snaps the rim of his trench coat and squats to meet Dave’s glassy eyes. “I think it’s past time we taught some of the dirtbags in this school a lesson.”
Dave laughs and laughs. “Oh gawd. What are you going to do? Teach me to kill people with mind bullets?”
Oleg folds his arms over his chest and scowls, trying to look intimidating in his long coat, but he barely manages rumpled. “I’m not the one bleeding,” he says. “Maybe I have resources you lack.”
Dave brings the glue stick to
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