K Tate learned a few years back to REM on the go, back when the tidal streams came random, ultimate rush hour death throes, run, think fast.
Learning curve REMS, when other transittransistors floated like bloated fish to the top of submerged subway trains, K Tate think awake swim
and live. Between the waves, sometimes weeks apart--this was the summer of 2011, Scandinavia swallowed--he'd solve thought conundrums.
Cloned with memories, true, his brain a storage device addled by DickDad Kindred and his love for reds and babes and blotter balloon acid.
What would he make of this, 40 years gone, clonekid breaststroking beneath the broken Brooklyn Bridge. REM pops him a moment, checkitout.
Slamerica needs an audience, clones of Gorgeous George and Micky Milkshake fighting atop Freedom Tower, perfect fireworks display look now.
K Tate was wetwired, knew where to look instead of what to see, Slamvertisers ignite the Statue of Liberty bingbangboom the flag was nowhere
Spikey head freefalls LED blimps catch it all, ultimate viewmasters, the book of the judged and then the torch, Vegas bet it wouldn't happen
Japan already planned a sequel, maybe bomb Dubai. Focus, K Tate, DickDad in dreams said eye am watching, Liberty head bobs, a spiked moon.
There it is, out of the cracked socket of the judgment face, a glass eye, hummed as it moved closer, as if he and it were magnetized, chums.
He was shark chum, what was the eye, daddio's eye? He always complained about the future, how we'd be enslaved by the UbiquiNet of Cycles.
Little Speedboat Eyeball, twice lidded, reptilian. Lady Liberty a Sardonicus now, chipping away from the fireworks and burning boron banners
Swirls of Slamverts curl past, 10PM Eastern Standard Oil Time. A cautionary note: ANY CLONES KILLED IN THE SNUFF FIGHT ARE JUST CLONES.
So we don't need to worry, K Tate thought-puzzled. The eye made contact. An eye of lost Liberty. A libertine eye have my rights dirty copper
Flipfall back, worse than glamcrack emojoicing, kiddy stuff in his new brain. Blacking out in waves, clutch the cult cargo swirling past.
A hunk of steel, remnants of the Staten Island Worshippers of 9/11, their populace mindgone, Homegrown Security freed them of religion. Doom.
Floating, holding mesmereye. Nightfall merewolves scrounge religious dead amidst terrorist DNA forgotten in Upended Slates of YouDareica.
Bob bob SoHo Tribeca EvElSta Hell's Kitchen snagged an eight flat tar top at 9th and 50th, needed aloneness for this byebye Freedom Tower.
K Tate sniffed the eye, everyone sniffed the air these days, after World Wide Web became World War 2.7 the internet broke, data-eaters.
Analogues of ThinkingMachines Inc. circa 1962, DickDad's first big joberro. 8 up everything & spit out punch cards, no one could understand.
SalSalt Federation accessed perdition while searching for tangible virtue, by happy accident coded into a scentient data dimension. tm & C.
K Tate couldn't recall the registered name, everything was labeled by Homegrown Security now, but on the street it was noseNet. Suck it in.
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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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