Mr. Kindred, your bonyhead seems particularly knobswollen this morning. Is it packed full of letters and numbers waltzing pyrotechnically?
Ouchy. I know it's sore, little fella. Shall I give it a gobsmack directly upon its achinpate? No? But it might provide the relief you seek.
Tell your old docdad wassamatta boy. Spill the beans, ballpeen. You've been sneakingpeeking on fireladderescapesloudsirens, haven't you son?
Did you managemenagerie to grabnab Mr. Culhane's mysterylockbox? You did? Was the luscious Cella Slink a-bouncin' on the bedspringadings?
And what was inside the talkinbox? A dozen cousins in a row? Leaning on elbows watching the show? In the boomroom? Year of our Lord 1945?
Must be erased posthaste, I think we all agree. I met surreptitiously with the fictitiously adroit duo BulletEyez and Baldo the Magnificent.
They were passing through you on a little jaunt from your old haunts, somewhere in the humidair over Miami, ten years hence-ish looking tan.
They tell me you're going to be quite famous, though somehow nameless. Fans will know you by the letters PKD. Or maybe it was KFC. Could be.
Odd, huh? CIA black ops put you in the drainpool living without rules. But you must emerge from creepdeepshadows to countersink your foes.
Exposure without closure could become your ruin. As your docdad, I advise: do not look directly at the scum without proper eye protection.
Kindred streetward slouching feetward spies a bluemoon with flashtired eyes. Headfull mission, nuclear fission. Smiling smallest of smiles.
I was on the run from Calumet, thought he was dead. No, HE thought he was dead. Zombie Motel, I tell you. And this is what my head is like.
Calumet, the corpus linguist, Mantell, the progressive ruin. The latter wanders as if dead, leaves one life, the next is worse than mine.
I'm not happy that Calumet is alive after I killed him for real-like in the last book I wrote...wait, I died before I wrote his death scene.
Where's the bible sublime? My answers are there. My questions are where? Soylent Green is food! Nope, that's the wrong bible, right future.
Calumet just will not quit. Spraying me with brain bullets not my own. Wrong stories, lost in the frames. You cut out his brain you blurgh.
Coughing up catch phrases not just right. Peel before Zod. Feel crunchy, punk? Puking up peels and parrot guts. It wasn't a parrot after all
It was a parakeet. Tweet, tweet. Invasion of the Bobby Soxers. Tweet, tweet. Channel change. The inner mind to... The Uber Litmus.
Brainflash spritz as a citybus blatted past, windows full of wide-eyed riders, Kindred buffeted by the backwash and metallic shift of gears.
Databits jangling skullcore. Do I remember the names? Slippage royal. Regroup, reload. Yes. Wallinfo intact, memory serves, rock and roll.