people’s aim - ammo ended up in folks who were slow to grasp its value and their unworthiness to receive it. The ballistic jukebox played a perennial favourite as the Entropy Kid and Corey the Teller pushed into the bar - the steady spatter of an Ingram M11 sub.
Once again the barman welcomed the Kid back into the ‘land of the living’. Whatever your strife, Toto knew it to the bone. He had bought the place knowing the trustiest rule of social disintegration: bars burn last.
‘ Gimme an October Surprise,’ the Kid whispered.
‘ I’ll have a shake,’ announced Corey sunnily as Toto spun a mixture of antifreeze and a solution for stripping the velvet from giraffes’ antlers.
‘ Who’s the prefab?’ Toto asked, switching off the centrifuge, but the Kid stared morosely at the bartop. Contradictions tore at his head - she asked him to open up and was disgusted when he did. She said she didn’t want to change him yet wanted him to be happy. She stuck as close as a tattoo. She thought with her hair. The Kid toyed nervously with his gun.
The lights went down for the Migraine Cabaret. Performers came on in lime-green face paint and shuffled slowly about the performance space, closing curtains and lying down. Two merged their checkerfield hallucinations and played chess on the rippling result. The crowd gamely bellowed in bewilderment and impatience.
The lights came up. Corey was still alive.
The Kid’s despair had continued like a fire crossing a bridge - to his mind it vaulted a gasoline river anyway. He led a charred life. Action was consumed and futile. Aiming the Kafkacell at himself only shorted the circuit. Aversion surgery prevented his using another weapon. Every suicide line he called turned out to be an anti-suicide line. He was trapped.
‘ What you get,’ said Corey, watching him, ‘tryin’ to escape from a clench that don’t exist.’
‘ Yeah, things ain’t been the same since they clenched Panacea,’ mused Toto, wiping a glass.
Had anyone ever escaped from the Mall? thought the Kid absently, gulping antifreeze. Not even Billy Panacea, burglar extraordinaire? It’d take outside help.
He remembered his break-out attempts at the braincut unit where he was bonded to the Kafkacell. He and his cellmate Dice ‘Killer’ Agnew had disguised themselves as guards and been beaten up during an escape by the other prisoners. Dice got inhuman after surgery, and escaped without him. The Kid awaited contact from outside, but there was zip. All he had was surgeons and guards to complain to. One sympathetic doctor involved him in regression therapy and the Kid discovered seemingly repressed moments of happiness in his childhood, but it was a classic case of false memory syndrome.
‘ Look behind you, Kid,’ said Toto.
A clown wearing forensic gloves lugged a rotary cannon from his table and walked out.
‘ Missed him,’ said the barman. ‘That was the Carny. In for the convention.’
The Kid was surprised and impressed - as slaughter went, this harlequinade assassin was the true spice. The Carny would scream like a demon as he let fly at motivational speakers, celebrities and diplomats, seeming to shoot from the heart. Nobody could guess what inferno took place in his cosmetic skull.
‘ Agreed to speak,’ said the barman. ‘Quite a coup for the bigots’ bunfight.’
An idea began a miraculous germination in the baked interior of the Kid’s mind. The bartop had begun to whirlpool, creaking.
‘ Speaking of which,’ said Toto, ‘you hear about Download Jones? Blew his gourd - redecorated the den in full and final fashion.’
‘ Cod-eyed?’
‘ Eyeless - heart of the blast, remember. Brotherhood escorted him backfirst into the den and in two shakes of a lamb’s tail, blam - ask round you don’t believe me. You know Jones - acutely paraphernaic. Not only that jawtrigger but some kinda virus bomb, supposedly - needs a daily re-set. Guess if it’s true we’ll hear them socketeers
Once again the barman welcomed the Kid back into the ‘land of the living’. Whatever your strife, Toto knew it to the bone. He had bought the place knowing the trustiest rule of social disintegration: bars burn last.
‘ Gimme an October Surprise,’ the Kid whispered.
‘ I’ll have a shake,’ announced Corey sunnily as Toto spun a mixture of antifreeze and a solution for stripping the velvet from giraffes’ antlers.
‘ Who’s the prefab?’ Toto asked, switching off the centrifuge, but the Kid stared morosely at the bartop. Contradictions tore at his head - she asked him to open up and was disgusted when he did. She said she didn’t want to change him yet wanted him to be happy. She stuck as close as a tattoo. She thought with her hair. The Kid toyed nervously with his gun.
The lights went down for the Migraine Cabaret. Performers came on in lime-green face paint and shuffled slowly about the performance space, closing curtains and lying down. Two merged their checkerfield hallucinations and played chess on the rippling result. The crowd gamely bellowed in bewilderment and impatience.
The lights came up. Corey was still alive.
The Kid’s despair had continued like a fire crossing a bridge - to his mind it vaulted a gasoline river anyway. He led a charred life. Action was consumed and futile. Aiming the Kafkacell at himself only shorted the circuit. Aversion surgery prevented his using another weapon. Every suicide line he called turned out to be an anti-suicide line. He was trapped.
‘ What you get,’ said Corey, watching him, ‘tryin’ to escape from a clench that don’t exist.’
‘ Yeah, things ain’t been the same since they clenched Panacea,’ mused Toto, wiping a glass.
Had anyone ever escaped from the Mall? thought the Kid absently, gulping antifreeze. Not even Billy Panacea, burglar extraordinaire? It’d take outside help.
He remembered his break-out attempts at the braincut unit where he was bonded to the Kafkacell. He and his cellmate Dice ‘Killer’ Agnew had disguised themselves as guards and been beaten up during an escape by the other prisoners. Dice got inhuman after surgery, and escaped without him. The Kid awaited contact from outside, but there was zip. All he had was surgeons and guards to complain to. One sympathetic doctor involved him in regression therapy and the Kid discovered seemingly repressed moments of happiness in his childhood, but it was a classic case of false memory syndrome.
‘ Look behind you, Kid,’ said Toto.
A clown wearing forensic gloves lugged a rotary cannon from his table and walked out.
‘ Missed him,’ said the barman. ‘That was the Carny. In for the convention.’
The Kid was surprised and impressed - as slaughter went, this harlequinade assassin was the true spice. The Carny would scream like a demon as he let fly at motivational speakers, celebrities and diplomats, seeming to shoot from the heart. Nobody could guess what inferno took place in his cosmetic skull.
‘ Agreed to speak,’ said the barman. ‘Quite a coup for the bigots’ bunfight.’
An idea began a miraculous germination in the baked interior of the Kid’s mind. The bartop had begun to whirlpool, creaking.
‘ Speaking of which,’ said Toto, ‘you hear about Download Jones? Blew his gourd - redecorated the den in full and final fashion.’
‘ Cod-eyed?’
‘ Eyeless - heart of the blast, remember. Brotherhood escorted him backfirst into the den and in two shakes of a lamb’s tail, blam - ask round you don’t believe me. You know Jones - acutely paraphernaic. Not only that jawtrigger but some kinda virus bomb, supposedly - needs a daily re-set. Guess if it’s true we’ll hear them socketeers
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