flashes, boomed a voice as though amplified through 50,000 watt speakertowers. And it said:
‘An office is a machine for dying.’
Turow began screeching like a vulture, mouth dry. He saw himself, diaphanous in his lack. This encounter was the very litmus of his courage and his face turned reflex blue. He found himself running, beyond his control. The building spat him out like an olive.
2 THE NUMB TOWN
Atom pulled on his pants and took the firepole to the garage. Drove through a dogma pageant, Cockroach Centrefold on the stereo. A bullet licked the paintwork. ‘What happens,’ he thought, ‘when the hitcher and the driver are equally murderous?’ Looking at this town with an honest eye was like biting into candy with a mouthful of cavities.
A bricolage block on Crane housed Madison Drowner’s apartment. Two guys were sparring on the sidewalk with boxing gloves made of tempera meringue. Passing them, Taffy saw the gloves were actually wooden heads removed from statues of the Virgin Mary.
Upstairs, Maddy ushered him in, walking away. ‘How they hanging.’
‘Geometrically.’
‘And I was just mixing some antifreeze.’
‘Guess I could use it. Guess we all could. Jed needs servicing.’
‘Of all the wild suggestions.’
‘Just a torn gill. We had a visitor came asking for it. It’s a cliché out there, baby.’
Maddy built a freeze to the sacred dimensions. Sometimes Atom wished he could kiss her brain directly. Her eyes, in defiance of the prevailing trend, were open. She was an angel as real as the bones in her body. ‘You’re warped, Taff. All that glee - it aint healthy.’
Atom took the glass of blue. ‘Health is subjective. I believe I’m evolving.’
‘Sure - into a dead man.’
‘Where’s your imagination?’
‘In the medicine cabinet.’ She regarded him over a drink. ‘You on a prank, Taff? Your forehead’s beating like a heart.’
‘Sanity’s a virginity of the mind, baby. Gimme a shock absorber.’ She lit one up between her lips and passed it to him. He breathed it in. ‘You know a girl by the name of Kitty Stickler?
‘Sure. Standard-issue blonde. All distinguishing marks removed. Rejects men who never noticed her. Rumours of a brain but nothing conclusive. Sings at the Creosote Palace.’
‘That a gun club?’
‘All the charm of a live bait store. The chandeliers are rubber - they don’t take any chances.’
‘Sounds like my kinda venue.’
‘Yeah - crash dummy heaven.’
‘That’s what I’m counting on. The greatest high in this graveyard nation is to have an effect.’
‘Effectiveness.’ She stood close to him, looking into and through his eyes. ‘They got a detox program for that?’
Atom chuckled. ‘You and your wet mouth.’ He pensively regarded his gasper. ‘I nearly depend on you, baby.’
‘You make me laugh,’ she said, ‘with your threats.’
The Creosote Palace was the last word in public disorder. Espousers of philosophies as diverse as Malraux gathered under one roof to engage in boisterous deceit and explosive arrogance. The only hope of distracting these bastards was to push a bubblehead on stage and get her wailing.
That was Kitty Stickler, up there singing a Beige Kidney standard which listed the surgical assaults all sexes were told they favoured for the female form. She chirped without irony, having undergone every cosmetic procedure on the list. Her body was so media-aligned it barely registered on the retina. She seemed unable to bend. Somewhere was a knot - someday it would give.
Atom entered, reversing the air’s ionic charge. Probability statistics polarised. Trying to detect the girl, he refocused until she fuzzed into view, singing like a lollypop. Even at this bandwidth she was like a flashy ad with no trace of a product. Atom strode between the tables, approaching the stage before the flow of his void coat. He stepped up.
‘Excuse me, ma’am -’
‘- Hey!’
‘- the name’s Atom, I need to
‘An office is a machine for dying.’
Turow began screeching like a vulture, mouth dry. He saw himself, diaphanous in his lack. This encounter was the very litmus of his courage and his face turned reflex blue. He found himself running, beyond his control. The building spat him out like an olive.
2 THE NUMB TOWN
Atom pulled on his pants and took the firepole to the garage. Drove through a dogma pageant, Cockroach Centrefold on the stereo. A bullet licked the paintwork. ‘What happens,’ he thought, ‘when the hitcher and the driver are equally murderous?’ Looking at this town with an honest eye was like biting into candy with a mouthful of cavities.
A bricolage block on Crane housed Madison Drowner’s apartment. Two guys were sparring on the sidewalk with boxing gloves made of tempera meringue. Passing them, Taffy saw the gloves were actually wooden heads removed from statues of the Virgin Mary.
Upstairs, Maddy ushered him in, walking away. ‘How they hanging.’
‘Geometrically.’
‘And I was just mixing some antifreeze.’
‘Guess I could use it. Guess we all could. Jed needs servicing.’
‘Of all the wild suggestions.’
‘Just a torn gill. We had a visitor came asking for it. It’s a cliché out there, baby.’
Maddy built a freeze to the sacred dimensions. Sometimes Atom wished he could kiss her brain directly. Her eyes, in defiance of the prevailing trend, were open. She was an angel as real as the bones in her body. ‘You’re warped, Taff. All that glee - it aint healthy.’
Atom took the glass of blue. ‘Health is subjective. I believe I’m evolving.’
‘Sure - into a dead man.’
‘Where’s your imagination?’
‘In the medicine cabinet.’ She regarded him over a drink. ‘You on a prank, Taff? Your forehead’s beating like a heart.’
‘Sanity’s a virginity of the mind, baby. Gimme a shock absorber.’ She lit one up between her lips and passed it to him. He breathed it in. ‘You know a girl by the name of Kitty Stickler?
‘Sure. Standard-issue blonde. All distinguishing marks removed. Rejects men who never noticed her. Rumours of a brain but nothing conclusive. Sings at the Creosote Palace.’
‘That a gun club?’
‘All the charm of a live bait store. The chandeliers are rubber - they don’t take any chances.’
‘Sounds like my kinda venue.’
‘Yeah - crash dummy heaven.’
‘That’s what I’m counting on. The greatest high in this graveyard nation is to have an effect.’
‘Effectiveness.’ She stood close to him, looking into and through his eyes. ‘They got a detox program for that?’
Atom chuckled. ‘You and your wet mouth.’ He pensively regarded his gasper. ‘I nearly depend on you, baby.’
‘You make me laugh,’ she said, ‘with your threats.’
The Creosote Palace was the last word in public disorder. Espousers of philosophies as diverse as Malraux gathered under one roof to engage in boisterous deceit and explosive arrogance. The only hope of distracting these bastards was to push a bubblehead on stage and get her wailing.
That was Kitty Stickler, up there singing a Beige Kidney standard which listed the surgical assaults all sexes were told they favoured for the female form. She chirped without irony, having undergone every cosmetic procedure on the list. Her body was so media-aligned it barely registered on the retina. She seemed unable to bend. Somewhere was a knot - someday it would give.
Atom entered, reversing the air’s ionic charge. Probability statistics polarised. Trying to detect the girl, he refocused until she fuzzed into view, singing like a lollypop. Even at this bandwidth she was like a flashy ad with no trace of a product. Atom strode between the tables, approaching the stage before the flow of his void coat. He stepped up.
‘Excuse me, ma’am -’
‘- Hey!’
‘- the name’s Atom, I need to
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