First manned spacecraft to escape earth orbit, circle another celestial body, return. Dark side of the moon, mysteryhistory. Braveboys ahoy.
Me? Landlocked drydocked stopclocked unfrocked cavorting, PJ springloaded exploded. Hoffman considering plastics, the graduate incarnate.
Pause. Somebody hit pause. Dick Overtone peering over rimless spectacles, gray brushcut vertically stubbed, blackclipontie rigidly centered.
Reams of closely spaced notes in an illegibly obscure crabby little pensmite. Calculations reverberation. Sliderule megatool greasestained.
Master of the Turbines, condensing Kindred's life into parcelized fragments for retransmissions on viable vectors emanating from Washington.
Government-controlled heebiejeebies, lifepulsing outward from the Joy Motel, whining notwithstanding, generators timegripping, offslipping.
Dick takes a wolfbite from his sloppy meatball sandwich, ketchup dripping onto the stained linoleum floor in the turbine room, redblots.
Glassdial gauges needles spinning, 1969 vibrating in tightwhite oscillations, on the mark preset with a thumbpress, tagged Kindred (altU).
Oilcans and wooden boxes full of records dating back to 1943. One labeled Trinity. Three boxes for Kindred. Papers spill crumpled. Charts.
Overtone manipulates, exacerbates Kindred's angsty perambulations through ticktocking unoduotreydimensionate pitapat lifebeats. Dialtwiddle.
One dialneedle spins redhotly counterclockwise, malfunction alternative universe, then hardstops, restarts, heart palpitations, not good.
He taps the glassdial with a grimed index finger, jars the needle and leaves a mustardsmudge on the indicator around about the 2oclock mark.
The turbine spins fractionally faster, Kindred feels his heartrace skipabeat but attributes it to the sight of Seashell's curvaliciousness.
Overtone can push Kindred forward or back, yearoveryear, independent of time constraint, but without influencing his freewill or lifespan.
Kindred convertiblized on the lowcanyon road with nubile passengers, tops down rolling toward the afternoon sun, 1:59PM then mustardsmudge.
Driving into a yellowwet fog that coats the windscreen, blotting out the road. The mustard from Overtone's jabfinger on the glassdial, 2PM.
Two worlds collide, Overtone's turbine zone directly whipsmacking Kindred's reality and then it's done as the convertible pops the smudge.
Kindred thumbwipes yellow off the lenses of his Italian sunglasses, inspired by Marcello Mastroianni. Pungent smell, hotdogs in ballparks.
He licks his thumb and tastes Overtone's mustard. Back in the Turbine Room, Dick finds a rag, wipes the glassdial clean, removes the smudge.
Kindred's car suddenly spotless, shining as if it just toasterpopped from a carwash, sunglinting Hollywoodstyle. Checks his Rolex: 2:02PM.
CLICK TO READ NEXT CHAPTER
A twitter novel
The Boston Phoenix says: "Joy Motel is a microblogging book worth scrolling upward for."
Joy Motel is an unconventional sci-fi narrative that was written in real time in 140 character bursts on Twitter, the Internet's fastest-growing social networking platform.
It takes its freeform, disconnected style from the randomness of the Twitterstream itself.
This is a novel for the 21st century, captured in quick bytes by a 5-time Bram Stoker Award Finalist and a Gold Award winning adman, who are transcribing the 'brainstream' flowing inside the neural net of its lead character, Kindred.
He has unknowingly purchased an untested, corrupt brainstream from a black market uploader, which has become an uneraseable part of Kindred's persona as he grapples with an ever-shifting sense of reality, dreams that twist into nightmares, and unreliable perceptions of time and space.
At the center of his struggle, a psychiatrist he calls Psychdaddy is attempting to resolve Kindred's repressed childhood memories of the 1945 Trinity nuclear blast in New Mexico and decode his father's role in a radical collective of bomb-worshippers called the 12 Disciples.
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