“We’ve come to collect,” The Triad to Jynx’s right steps forward. “Have you forgotten our generous loan already Mr. Jynx?”
“I was under the impression it was a gift.”
“The person who misled you has been dealt with.”
Tanya’s mind, feeling the creep of designer molecules, shifts into a more extroverted frame. Registering more bodies in the room, that she just absolutely had to greet. If she didn’t, every last zinging molecule in her body would drop dead. Tanya makes herself more upright, causing the Triads in the back to pull guns. Following from guns to Watty’s bleeding head, Tanya instantly flips from candy and sunshine to oblivion nightmare mode, screaming at the top of her lungs.
Through the open door, the beat hammered out as time became elastic. Each arm of reality’s kaleidoscope pinwheel fractaled into a separate microcosm. In each shard of a perfectly patterned broken mirror, words flashed and vanished in the sky as they were spoken. The representation of the word itself hung in the air as it escaped the speaker’s lips. The Triads confused speech amongst themselves wove into a patterned ribbon that danced between the frames forcing the real world into a comic page. Their unfamiliar language becomes the vocal track for the thunderous infinite playlist. Tanya swore she could follow the dangerous conversation at its primal core of meaning.
The artwork crowds in. Black and white facsimiles wobble in and out of realistic movements. The mind fills in gaps of reasonable animation from a treasure trove of witnessed reference points. An exchange of words and and gifts fight in the realm of communications chatter. A white noise miasma shocks all the broken mirror comic book panels into an earthquake settled color static. Busted synesthasia flashes psychedelic paint jobs over never meeting corners of stereoscopic static.
Tanya’s anxiety wells up inside like the first rolls of a mescaline vomit. Her guts clench and unclench, feeling full like never before in her life, full of sloshing waves of fluids and pheromones. Her very existence, tidally locked to some greater force, wove together a tapestry where she and Watty and the Triads and everyone else else, are but single threads. Jerked and pulled along through life and all the other lives touching their threads past, present and future. Unseen hands puppeteering about everyone’s strings tied to their ankles and snaking up and out of the neckholes of their finely pressed shirts.
Except Jynx.
“Woah, woah, woah, I think we all need to take a moment and breathe. Am I right people?” Jynx was smiling with his palms out, but the space where he once stood was a black spot staring out at the world around it, no string poking from his shirt neck. Tanya is still shrieking. Jynx’s shade twitches in an expand and recoil cycle to the echoey beat still in effect, “How about I give back my gift, you put the guns down, and you takebacking jackholes get out of my sanctuary? Is that acceptable?”
A discharged slug echoes into infinite inside Tanya’s ears muffled by a four on the floor beat. There lies Jynx; he died from a bullet inflicted headwound. The Triads debate among themselves in Mandarin, pointing at Tanya. Tanya blinks, uncomprehending. Each time her eyes open Jynx’s bullethole wobbles with neon light. She closes her eyes and a jigsaw puzzle of the world builds itself out of order behind her lids. Each piece shifts like a kaleidoscope of the entire puzzle twirling within the borders. Complete, Tanya saw the bullethole, the empty eyes, indistinguishable from opening her lids. Tanya wished she started with one pill.
The Triads nod in unison. One in a dark wrap suit and a spiked orange flat top looks Tanya in the eye, and can’t tell if she sees him. He removes his pistol from its harness, aims, shakes off the nerves, then eats an uppercut with a snap. The Triad lands on his stomach, face towards the ceiling.
Knees bent inward, blood, brain and bone exposed, Jynx stood ground despite evidence pointing to that being fragging impossible. From a rasping throat, an echoey female voice laughs, “Had I known the final warning I was given was so final, I would have been more prepared for this moment.” Jynx’s body lurches like a tangled marionette.
The still standing Triads pull firearms and empty their clips into Jynx’s reanimated body. Its guts ooze through a shredded red top. The four on the floor stopped, no follow-up song was queued, no more sounds of escaping revelers. Reverberating laughter fills the air. Four Triads with limp guns recoil in terror from the abomination limping towards them, spilling blood and organs in its wake.
“你肯定不希望我的礼物回来了？” Jynx says in its spooky dead woman voice. Ruptured arm muscles strain beneath their skin. The center Triad--that pistol whipped Watty--froze under Jynx’s mangled gaze. “你想你的自己的礼物呢？” Jynx wraps talon fingers around the Triad’s neck, loose brain gel dripping over a blackened eye. The triad makes sounds of suffocation as mist spills from his eyes, nose, mouth and ears. The mist crawls up Jynx’s mangled arms, twisting into all of the openings in his own head.
The remaining Triads, deciding to cut their losses, slip along the flooring in their dress shoes. Jynx releases his grip on the current target, their face a garden of agony and ecstasy, “Don’t run away now, boys.” Three racing Chinese men halt in their tracks, “I was prepped for a single course, now I get a buffet.” Each one turns back to the red mess of bullet holes and creaking bones against their will. One mutters the Lord’s prayer in Shanghainese.
A great cloud of blue-gray mist rises from their collective bodies like steam from a stock pot. Tanya watches the display through a lense of channel surfing emotion. Every time she felt something strong a new feeling hit Tanya’s senses as the guy she had only met a couple times, sort of, inhaled like they just quit smoking for three months.
Black suits collapse in a joyously horrified heap. Jynx cavorts his broken frame until it stares into Tanya’s eyes. She feels heat rise in her chest and crotch as red light dims in Jynx’s pupil. Tanya swallows hard, knowing what comes next. Jynx doesn’t open his mouth, but that echoey female laughter fills the room.
“You are about the luckiest girl in the world tonight. I’m full, and this body’s of no more practical use.” Tanya feels the words crawl about in her jaw and the small bones of her ears. Warmth accompanies the most serious wettie she’s ever had as the red light fades behind Jynx’s eyes. She wants to puke, but that could be the pills.
“I’ll look for you again when I get situated. Keep in touch.” And with that, Jynx’s body collapses.
Tanya was in a room full of empty husks and socialite blood. She stole to behind the bar, fills her clutch with all the vials she could cram, then wedges into her heels.
On her way to the open irised door, Watty moans. Tanya wanted to spit on him. ‘Jynx does these type of things all the time,’ indeed. Through the anti-anxiety club drugs, ‘Jynx’s’ final words rang through her head, ‘You’re about the luckiest girl in the world right now.’
Watty’s left eye was swollen shut. Tanya hated herself for helping him, but Watty was still the closest thing she had to a friend. He tries to speak, only managing paralanguage. Tanya helps him to his feet. Watty steadies himself, managing an, “I’m alright.”
They hobble up the stairs and through the abandoned ruins of what had been a freak parade. The security guard lay open mouthed in a puddle of his own blood originating from a fresh set of gills . Tanya thought of fish out of water. In her peripheral she caught a fish person with a couple leaky holes where the heart goes. Exiting into the airlock, Watty shrugs off Tanya’s arm. He turns and stares back at the dance floor, drinking it all in. With a whimsical sigh, and flit of the hand, Watty turns back to Tanya with a crooked smirk.
Tanya caught a flash of red in Watty’s pupils as he says, “Time to start the next party.”
six
Say Goodbye, Hollywood
[TW2099CE]
Goodbye Horses - Q Lazerus
Decker’s earbones rattled an alarm from his metro app. He was flying (flying) over yo(oo-oo-ooooo)u as the cramped pubtran bus pulled up to the curb. He rubbed grit from his red stung eye
s and hoisted a pocket studded bag, filled with the majority of Decker’s worldly possessions, into his lap. Hollywood dwellers of all walks of life spilled out of the bus doors and into Unity Station’s welcoming blue/white LED glow. Helpful contra-alto voices kept the Pre-2nd Rush Hour hustle informed of arrivals and departures. Decker set boots to the ground, shouldered his bag, and moved into the Pharrel Inc. and subsidiaries advert choked terminal.
Last Train to Clarksville - The Monkees
Decker’s bus idled outside Entrance 25 as he idled in line to scan a thumbprint and DNA sample.
Inside, the WolfPack™ coach seats were well-cushioned at some point in their history. Now they reeked of fart and dead hopes. Holding his breath against the updraft, Decker sloughed into the window seat.
The Gutters of Hollywood - DeMolition Lab
Decker’s last few weeks of closing affairs in Hollywood were behind him. His “Say Goodbye, Hollywood” playlist, nine songs deep, dropped a personal soundtrack to this excursion. The future was all he had to look forward to as he went off to his new NetSec job for Roplaxive Pharmaceuticals. To Decker, switching coasts meant trading smog silhouettes and celebrity clones for skyscrapers and regular clones. In between lay a burnt out stretch of desert-complete with pockets of radiation-and the Big Dartboard, Metro City, thrown in for good measure. Just a long, boring, ride across The Wastes sickened scorched earth safe parts, and he’d be reunited with his BFF Trip over in skaghole Ocean City.
Gray Goo Goodbye - Phởn Thaim
Some dumpy, rotund, asex in a knee brace sneered at Decker’s pocket bag sitting pretty in their assigned seat. They cleared their throat the way people honk while waiting for someone to back out of a parking spot. Decker sighed with his whole body and attempted to jam his mostly loaded bag into the occupied overhead storage. Another throat clearing that sounded like a flooded RV engine trying to turn over. Decker took his time pulling out his Minjung-Ui Him palmtop as a line grew behind the breasted-neck beard.
Hollywood (Africa) - Red Hot Chili Peppers
Decker slid back into his seat, his neighbor wafted up a fresh blast of stale ass when they harrumphed into theirs. Decker jumped onto the bus’s WiFi and jacked into his launcher, grateful that the neuronet cut out the olfactory sense. Blocking out the mundanities of Base Plane Reality with a virtual experience sounded like the only pleasing option. That or seppuku. But Decker wanted to save that for a special occasion.
Rise FM - Manual Insertion
A matrix green clock in the corner of Decker’s HUD said it was twenty minutes since loading when the driver took their seat. Decker dropped out of his launcher to catch the driver doing a head count before shifting into gear with a series of clunks.
Irradiados Wasteland Azules - Juan Chavez
The amount of worthwhile sites to see were countable on one hand. Decker couldn’t have known, looking at silly pet videos and trolling forums. Decker originally wanted to read and listen to music in his HUD. The sour smells wafting off dumpybeing in the adjacent seat changed that tune and kept Decker stink free in his launcher.
Sol glowed on the horizon behind The WolfPack™ as they approached the buckshot riddled sign announcing, “Come See Historic Nipton on Highway 164”. LSV was a ways up The 15, but the first rest stop at Stateline was just in time for Decker’s swollen bladder.
幸せな願い事をする、楽しい時間を持っている[Dragon Ultra DX Remix] - Happy Bark
Liz drained.
Don’t Turn My Black Heart Blue -
The Brotherhood of the Bleeding Crying Heart Rose Tears
Decker checked his stinging eyes in the bathroom mirror and added drops. He rinsed sweat from his face, tasting salt on the edge of his lips. He dried and waited for a stall to open up, bag-o-stuff slung off his shoulder like a daytripper. Decker wavered on his feet from lack of sleep and nutrition. He hopped from foot to foot to keep himself moving, and sell the idea that he still had to go after using a urinal. His skin felt like it was ready to crawl right off his muscle.
It’s Dangerous To Go Alone - Giết Sàn
A large man with a Confederacy bandana exited a skag stinking stall. Decker held his breath, tapped his creds for a privacy shield, and sat down on the toilet seat with his pants still on. It was three weeks since Decker slept and two days since he huffed any JumpUp. His skin was a network of spastic twitches firing jolts throughout. He felt the inner lining of his bag for a microzipper that secured his stash pocket.
Decker held the clear plastic L in his brown fingers, marveling at how quick he fell back into Jumping in the wake of his best friend Trip(and his pharmaceutical expertise)’s absence in Hollywood. The same Hollywood Decker bought the ticket and took the ride on a bus across the blasted out ruins of New America to escape for Ocean City. And that bus out of this rest area was going to leave without Decker if he didn’t hurry this up.
Flying Free - 소녀18시대
A burst of medicine flavor coated Decker’s tongue as he breathed deep, ignoring trace fecal particles in his air quality widget. As the designer molecules danced their magic, that familiar fuzzy lead feeling crept from soles to scalp, all over Decker’s senses. His skin prickled with cold sweat over a warm niacin flush. Time dilated, leaving stuttering motion trails in Decker’s visual wake. And what would doing stims be without that sudden feeling of needing to deuce? At least he was in the right place for it.
Get Out There And Make It Look Good - Guy-Pierre Le Chance
Decker pulled the ole’ slaghead trick of dropping the privacy shield before flushing, to add a touch of legitimacy. The bathroom on the other side of the soundproof barrier was dead quiet for a rest stop/gas station/casino hybrid. Opening the door revealed the Confederate rag dude waiting outside, flanked by two beflanneled men on each side. They had a mouthful of teeth between the five of them. Confederate rag was down his front four when he smiled back black between a splotchy beard.
The one in the road cone orange meshback whistled dixie at Decker, “Boy Axle, you shore wern’ ki’in ‘bout dat purty peesuh dark meat in here.”
Decker’s jump trails made a halo of dayglo orange around the guy’s bobbing head, “Uh, hello there gentlemen. Nice bathroom you’ve got here,” a nervous laugh, “well, see ya later.”
Decker attempted to push past the five-man band of bad hygiene towards the exit. The one in the blue and black plaid shirt closest to the door stuck a foot out that caught Decker in the shin. Inside Decker’s head, the fall took forever. Once his chin struck the gritty wet tile, with a reverberating clunk, life fast forwarded to the end and faded to black.
Someone’s In The Wolf - Queens of the Stone Age
Eyes blinked open on fluorescent lighting. Decker regained consciousness with blood running down his neck. Hot throbs pulsed along through his head and ribcage. In his HUD, the health widget displayed signs of fixable trauma inflicted while unconscious.
“Rise and shine, valentine.”
A ring of five faces leaned into Decker’s view, each wearing a skageating grin. Decker turned his head. Through acid-washed denim legs he spotted his rifled through belongings strewn about the disgusting floor. The pawnable bits were already divvied up between the five truckers. Decker gave an involuntary shudder. It was followed by a sharp *THUD* and a reignite of the fire in his ribs. Riotous laughter burst from the Confeds. Decker turned over and got another kick to his ribs.
“Whatchoo think yer doin’ boy?” A reedy drawl chuckled. Decker reached a hand out for freedom to have it crushed beneath a bootheel. More squealing laughter, “You ain’ts goin’ nowheres.”
“Now, wait boys. I got me an idear, “ Axle shifted cagey eyes at the group. “Benny, you gots sum straws?”
Benny flipped a shirt pocket open to reveal a collection of chewed coffee stirrers that matched the one in his mouth. He gathered them all and placed them in Axle’s hand.
Axle gripped the straws by their gnarled ends, the unchewed sides sticking out of his fist like a
bloody thumb. “Awrigh’, whoe’er gits the mos’ fugged up nasty straw here, dey git da prize goose,” Axle thrust his fist above Decker’s prone body. Each Hick lunged for a straw. Decker could only think about being da prize goose.
Each man held the fragged up side of their coffee stirrer for judgement. Everyone examining Benny’s teeth notches with forensic intent.
The human equivalent of a rake (with how scrawny and bucktoothed he was) jumped for joy with a straw so mangled it curled into a flattened red U. “Wooooooooee! It gonna be a sweet ride to NoHo fer me, boys!” The rest of the gang turned on The Rake, whose work shirt said “Doug” on it.
Decker got himself sitting upright as they advanced on “Doug”. While normally he’d be pleased by the prospect of free sex, being a trucker sextoy did not instill hope his safeword would be honored. On top of being a future chronic mouth rape victim, being sent in the opposite direction of Trip, and the upgrades Roplaxive promised to install in his head for free, was not in Decker’s cards.
“NoHo? No dadfragging way I’m puckering up just for a ride to NoHo,” Decker scoffed. The Confeds halted their attack on “Doug”. “Might as well haul the sad sack you call a rig back to The Confederacy if you think I’m going anywhere near SFB510.”