Fuck the game, he said.
He wanted to end it, he wanted to blow it out of the water with a big, big splash and the first order of business had been to put a hit out on old Moon. That’s right. He offed the fat bastard himself. He cut his throat and bled him dry. Okay, so he faked it. It looked good, though. It looked real. Beyond that, he had no idea what he was doing. He just wanted to stir things up and see what happened.
Dear Jude.
This shit is well out of hand and there’s no reason to think it will change gears and become painless or dull anytime soon. I have to meet Griffin in less than an hour. Oh fucking joy.
Truly, I barely feel like myself. And it’s not that I’m afraid of becoming Ray Fine, exactly. There is an ugly new sensation that I can only describe as degeneration. My physical presence is failing.
I am not real, okay.
The reflection that I seek in mirrors and blackened store windows, this is real enough. My reflected image is cruising up the street without a care in the world but I am nowhere to be found and how fucked up is that.
And I thought Eve was crazy. Her apartment was unstable, so what.
Come on you neurotic piece of shit. Take out your knife and poke yourself in the thigh. Your shadowself will hardly bleed, will it. But the mirror version of Phineas will certainly lose its status in the ghostworld if it shows itself to have ordinary bodily fluids so go ahead boy, open up a fat vein.
This was no good, no fucking good.
I was talking to myself and of all my nervous habits, that was one I had never cared for. And I seemed pretty bent on cutting a big hole in my own leg. What a shivering mess I was. I turned around and around, looking for a safe place to roost. A place with normal, friendly humans. There was an open café across the street, yeah. I could have a five-dollar cappuccino and a piece of pie and read a few pages of Ulysses and with any luck there would be no mirrors in the place and just maybe that would do the trick.
Nervous bowels or bad coffee or too much sugar. Whatever the cause I was soon camped out in the public toilet with a horrible case of liquid shit. Which always makes me feel like I am probably dying. It just seems inherently bad to spray fluids from that particular hole. The bathroom was not filthy, at least. It was equipped with toilet paper. But the stall had been recently painted and the absence of graffiti was unnerving.
I pulled out Ulysses and flipped the pages around. For some reason, I couldn’t read it in its proper order and I thought Joyce would forgive this. Why else would he write in such maddening circles.
Metempsychosis. The transmigration of souls.
I was with Molly on that one. Tell us in plain words, as she said. But I got the general idea and maybe this was my own problem. I was transmigrating.
Dear Jude.
I’m sure it’s just residual sadness or some kind of projection but I can’t read a word about Leopold Bloom without seeing Detective Moon. His round unhappy face. And I hope that doesn’t cast me as Dedalus because he was one fucked-up person. He was tormented by memory, by false guilt. He was terrified of water and pregnancy and dogs. He was obsessed with the past, with the death of his mother. He had trouble with women. He had trouble with sex, like the rest of us. Stephen Dedalus was nearsighted and he was forever hallucinating.
He didn’t much believe in reality.
Of course. It does sound very familiar.
But I think Dedalus was essentially good. He was frail and tortured and he had his doubts about the origin of sin but he was at least searching for the high ground. He wanted to be pure. He was a tragic hero, whatever that means. I would personally claw the eyes out of anyone who said that shit about me.
Chrome:
Love. He was in love with this one. He had spotted him at one of those automated cash machines where the humans line up like rabbits for a food pellet. Pushing buttons, their faces bright and fearful. They were always so relieved when the cash appeared. They smiled, as if they were chosen.
His target was of medium height, white or Hispanic. Dark eyes and very nice skin. Clean skin was a plus in all new relationships. He appeared to be healthy but not dangerous. And definitely a Fred. It was in the eyes, the emptiness of the Pale. Chrome had watched the man at the money machine, laboring to enter his code correctly. His card kept getting rejected. The Fred’s little world was slipping and the machine hatefully spat out his card like a bad seed and he kept pushing it in until the machine finally ate it. The Fred remained placid all the while. He didn’t wail at the sky or pull out his hair, he didn’t strike the machine. He never blinked. Again, this was the Pale. And when the Fred had first flipped his wallet open to fetch out his card, Chrome saw the flash of a silver badge and felt his pulse jump. Another policeman.
Now. The hunt.
The Fred moved along at a turtle’s pace, stopping every so often to obsessively examine his damned shoelaces. As far as Chrome could tell, the man’s laces had not come undone yet. It was the very idea that seemed to plague the Fred. And each time the Fred stopped, Chrome was forced to stop as well.
His heart drumming crazily in the shadows. He was sure the Fred would hear it, if he only bothered to listen. But the Fred was busy untying his left shoe now, then tying it again. For the love of Mary. Did every serial killer have to put up with this sort of thing? He doubted that Hannibal Lecter would tolerate such foolishness. It was downright unseemly, is what it was. And he resolved to punish the Fred a little bit extra for the shoelaces.
They were moving east now. Away from downtown. Chrome nibbled at his own tongue and tried to think of ways to make this interesting. Eyes closed, perhaps. Hopping on one foot. Anything to give the Fred a fighting chance. And now the Fred did something that made Chrome smile, that brought the blood to his mouth. The Fred decided to take a shortcut through a graveyard. The ambiance would be divine.
Elvis was waiting.
Major Tom:
Black flies buzzing round and round behind his very eyes and something caught between his teeth, shred of apple skin or a piece of thread. A fingernail, maybe.
He sat at the best available table at the Paramount in his sharpest black suit, sort of a teddy-boy outfit with pants slim as knives and a jacket with no lapels, zip-up boots with squared-off toes perfect for kicking in the face of anyone who made the mistake of fucking with him. Dangling from his shoulder was Kink, his ethereal yet stupid-as-dirt girlfriend. Long dark red hair that looked wet, fine white throat and shoulders. She wore a thin plastic sheath of a bodysuit that appears to be transparent but was not, that stretched around her long muscled limbs like futuristic rubber. He was fascinated by this garment’s construction, for there were no visible zippers or snaps and it looked like she had been dipped into the suit while it was still liquid and perhaps would have to be cut out of it later with a sharp knife. Tom stroked her tight inner thigh with one finger while smoking a thin cigar and chewing a piece of ice and keeping one eye well peeled for the elusive Poe.
Tongue like hot velvet dipping into his ear and he had to fight the urge to turn and bite it.
Careful, he said. Be careful, sweet Kink.
I’m thirsty, she purred.
Wait until my friend arrives.
I can’t wait, Tom.
And don’t call me that. It will only confuse him.
A cool, long-fingered hand crawled up his leg and stroked his gear through his pants with such delicious carelessness that he shivered and sighed. He wore no underpants with this suit, for the material was so fine and close-fitting that he had to be careful of unsightly panty lines and one consequence of this was that his rig was ultrasensitive from all the incidental rubbing and touching and seemed to live in an ongoing state of half-erection. He pushed the hand away with some reluctance and pondered the chance of missing Poe if he took the dear girl off to the lavatory and screwed her to shreds in an unoccupied stall. He frowned, blowing a long stream of smoke into the glittering crowd. The mysterious Krazy Glue outfit might be a problem, however. For if he
was forced to cut or rip it from her body, then she would have nothing at all to wear. He would have to wrap her up in newspapers and deposit her into a passing taxi. And this, he thought, might not be such a bad plan. He had a terrifying erection by this time and it would of course be a lot of fun to cut open her suit and besides, she would only be a nuisance later when he was trying to have an intelligent word or two with Poe. He smiled and smiled, for now the idea struck him that her outfit might well have come equipped with a small, discreet opening at the crotch for just such an occasion. An extra set of lips for the possibility of a good spontaneous public fucking, as it were. And a girl does have to pee, as well. Approximately twenty-nine times per hour, if she was anything like his girl. Right right right. Having settled this bothersome question, Tom was just gathering the strength to take Kink by the cold hand and breathe something vile and daring into her ear and drag her off to the Men’s when he saw Poe ducking through the crowd in what at first glance appeared to be a psychotic clown’s suit. Tom reminded himself to act more like Griffin and he smiled widely, for Griffin was proud of his fine white teeth and so he smiled with all his fury.
I was not the least bit thrilled by this scene. Too many disjointed arms and legs in sleek polyester, too much bad hair and too many self-
conscious white people dancing badly by far. And I didn’t much care for swing music. It was tolerable for about five minutes, amusing even. Then it got old in a hurry. I spotted Griffin now, sitting at a raised table with a not pretty but disturbingly sexy woman dressed like a very slutty version of Catwoman. I glanced down at Ray Fine’s noxious clothing and shrugged. But I did take the hat off as I approached the table. I had a little pride left. Griffin didn’t get up, but magnanimously pointed at an empty chair with the end of his cigar. I muttered a hello and sat down, lit a cigarette and looked around for a waiter. The catwoman regarded me with supreme disinterest.
Hello, I said.
Poe, said Griffin. I’m glad you could come.
Who’s your friend?
This mad goddess? said Griffin. This is Kink, my beloved.
I watched his eyes for cruelty. He was such a good lawyer. He was relatively honest but his words were slick as jelly, veiled in hostility and despair.
Hello, said Kink. Her voice was hoarse.
I wanted to say hello, I wanted to be polite. Instead I just stared at her until she looked away.
What’s the matter with you? said Griffin.
Never mind, I said. Then thought about it. What the fuck. I guess it doesn’t matter. You were in the DA’s office, Griffin. Did you know a Detective Moon, from the Ninth?
Griffin touched his forehead as if he had a sudden migraine. The girlfriend rolled her eyes.
You okay? I said.
If you don’t mind, Poe. I would rather not discuss my daytime life, not now.
I didn’t care for this answer. Moon got himself killed today, I said.
Please, said Griffin. I’m sorry, of course.
What about Jimmy Sky? Have you ever heard of him?
Griffin brightened. Jimmy Sky, he said. He said it twice, as if the name felt good to his tongue.
Do you know him? I said.
Afraid not, said Griffin. But it’s a fine, sexy name.
Uh-huh. I need a drink, I said.
Don’t bother looking for the waiter. There isn’t one.
Then I’m going to the bar.
Griffin shook his head. That won’t be necessary, he said.
He reached under the table to retrieve a bottle wrapped in plain brown paper and Kink promptly began to suck pornographically at her little finger. Her eyes flashing. Griffin removed the paper and I nodded, unsurprised. It was another bottle of the Pale. I had been thinking more along the lines of Jack Daniels, maybe vodka on the rocks with a pint of beer to chase it down, but this Pale stuff was not so bad. A little too sweet for my liking but weirdly potent and now I felt thirsty just looking at the bottle. Griffin reached into the side pockets of his jacket and produced two shot glasses.
I’ll drink from the bottle, he said.
Griffin poured out two quivering shots and I swallowed mine before my heart took another beat. My head swam pleasantly. Kink took hers in dainty sips while Griffin had a long, greedy drink from the bottle. I poked my empty glass across the table. Another one, I said.
Griffin poured me another and I sucked it down. It was like drinking air.
Another one, I said.
Griffin smiled. Easy, cowboy. We have all night.
Another, I said.
You want to be gentle with this stuff at first.
I took a puff of my forgotten cigarette and smiled. It was maybe the best cigarette I had ever smoked and I knew I was in big fucking trouble. I looked around me. The crowed had faded away and I felt invisible.
The stuff you gave me earlier, I said. It was okay. But this is amazing.
I was having difficulty with my English.
That bottle was mostly water, said Griffin.
And I’ve had absinthe before, I said. It’s not like this.
No, said Griffin.
Kink finished her drink and poured another one. I stared at her, my mouth open like a dummy. She was not so beautiful five minutes ago. Her skin had surely not been shimmering like this. This girl was made of silver and butterfly wings and she seemed to vibrate at some impossible high frequency. As if she might well disappear before my eyes. I was weak, I was a paper torso. I wiped at my mouth with some effort and found that I was drooling and I wanted this girl. I wanted to be inside her, to suck and bite and devour her. More than anything, I wanted to be eaten by her.
Relax, said Griffin. She’s a Trembler.
What? I said. She’s a what?
Phineas looked down from the ceiling and watched with mild horror as his disconnected body leaned across the table like a puppet with open mouth and splayed hands and he realized that he would do anything to kiss her, anything at all. He could possibly take a kiss by force but he didn’t seem to have the strength. He was a worthless beggar and what under the sun did he have to trade her for a kiss? He had his shoes, his goofy hat. He had a few hundred dollars but he didn’t want to insult her with an offering so profane.
Griffin poked the girl with a sharp finger. For fuck’s sake, Kink. Will you cut it out? he said.
Just a small nibble, she said. Just a taste of his tongue.
Griffin’s eyes were boiling now. No, he said.
But he’s a Fred, she said. Like any other.
He’s a friend, said Griffin softly. Leave him be or I will damage you.
The woman relaxed her gaze and I felt warm, then cold. I slowly regained a little muscular control but my tongue remained unfamiliar. As if it was not my own.
The fuck is going on, I said.
And slimy, my tongue was slimy oh boy.
Griffin nodded, smiling. You want to gather your wits, Poe.
Yeah, I know. Why did she call me Fred?
It’s complicated.
My name is not Fred.
Griffin sighed. Have you ever heard of the game of tongues?
The what? I lit another cigarette, fingers shaking slightly.
Are you sure you’re okay?
I touched my forehead. It felt like a blood vessel had swollen to almost but not quite bursting, like I should be unconscious now but was not. My vision was extraordinarily clear. I could see through my own skin. The club was dark but I squinted across the table like a traumatized rabbit with pink eyes.
Yeah, I said. Maybe I need a beer, or some regular water.
Griffin glanced at Kink, who pouted briefly then swiveled away.
When you were a kid, said Griffin. Did you ever play Dungeons & Dragons?
I shrugged. I was briefly a geek in high school, so what?
Griffin placed his hands flat on the table, palms down, his fingertips drumming the gouged oily surface and I stared at them for a while, unhappily waiting for the table to turn to butter. Meanwhile,
Griffin’s face and naked skull looked to have been cut from brittle green limestone.
You want to tell me what’s in that Pale beverage, now?
Griffin shrugged. It’s mostly herbs, vitamins: ginseng and gingko, various algaes and concentrated wheat grass. And the wormwood, of course. It’s really pretty good for you.
It’s a fucking smart drink? That’s what you’re saying.
I said mostly herbs. There’s also a mild dose of Ecstasy and a touch of synthetic heroin.
That sounds…great, I said. It’s just what I need, thanks.
Listen, said Griffin. Forget about the Pale, okay.
I hate Ecstasy, I said. I hate that shit. It makes people feeble and friendly.
Please shut up, said Griffin. The drugs are irrelevant.
I flapped my arms and felt confident that I was in fact made of sticks. I tried not to laugh. I was the stickman.
The Pale is only a means to an end, said Griffin.
Twitch and grin.
I jerked my head up and down like a stupid muppet.
Violent. I wanted to be violent and I was grateful for a concrete concept, for something I could properly wrap my teeth around. Fucking Griffin, though. He just sat there, staring at me. He wouldn’t finish the train of thought, the bastard.
Then what is the end? I said, almost shouting.
Griffin smiled. He smiled. The game of tongues, of course.
Major Tom:
Oh, please won’t someone give him a bullet. Did he truly not recall what a twisty nervous and altogether paranoid wreck Poe could be?
Fucking Poe. He was exactly like a chick, sometimes.
He wanted to show the old boy a good time and suddenly it was not unlike trying to squeeze a rape confession out of a deaf and dumb schoolteacher. Tom adjusted the knot in his tie and polished his scalp with the heel of his hand. Everything was fine, everything was fine. The first order of business was to get Poe the hell out of this dreadful place. Martha’s Dead had begun to warm up, torturously tuning their inexpensive guitars and complaining about the monitors and hammering aimlessly at the drums. And Kink had apparently disappeared into the void, so fuck her. She could catch up with them at the Unbecoming Club. Right right right.