How to find your way at Joy Motel

To READ Joy Motel from the beginning
then follow the link at the bottom of each chapter.

To JUMP to any chapter,
use the list of chapter titles in the panel on the right side of every page.

Or use the SEARCH box after each chapter to find what you're looking for.

69 Plutonium blue

What the hell, make this a ghost town go round, maybe have some fun at the end. Minutes later, bland grenades cradled by Technicolor trolls.

Found a box, kicked it over, shovelled everything inside, hard like family secrets. Took the toothpick box out of his pocket, opened it.

Eye impaled on the last remaining piece of wood. Secure. Look around for more stuff, wheel it down to the old house. A middle-aged kiddie.

Check it out, he thought. Von Braun bobbleheads. Only two, K Tate kept one, left the other in mute motion. File cabinet, empty. Cheesecake.

Lili St. Cyr, 1964 calendar, sipping a cool drink. Slipping a cool wink. Looked like she was staring at her crotch, no, went to a newspaper.

Jayne Mansfield dead, head severed in a car wreck, photo of said head blurred black & white while Lili was so creamy. K Tate grabbed both.

No shoeprints in the dust but his, a skittering of spiders he heard as echoes. He took a bowling pin striped red twice like ground zero.

Boxes of scratchy pencils, 24 Hour Bowling, all nubbed. Overturned desk: a dead horse with palsied legs. K Tate rapidly bored. What else...?

He swiped random shelfshapes into the box, then fingertapped curled pages. Tiptoed look, worth examination. Light slivered in doorway. Whoa.

More missing kids decadesgone. Doubleblink. Each kiddo, mano-o-Maneshewtz! One freckled kid had a green pencil in the faded colored pocket.

Bowling score scratchy. Another boy a birdcall in his bony grasp, sure enough, two in the box. Same for a monster keychain & Django Sherwin.

Shoved the pages, 11 in all, beside the trolls. A mystery of history, mid 60s strangeness when, miles away, men designed the bombs of future.

K Dad lived zigzaggy close. Security fences new, no diagonal now. Look for Actinium Corridor, end of alley. No sound but rolling wheels.

K Tate didn't care where the military went, maybe ran scared from irradiated Rio Grande. Coward convoys covered with tin can courage. Right.

70s grafitti further up, broken fence like sadstreet mansmile. K dad's fave, the doors of perception guy, epileptic fractured paingrin truth.

Crazy ass neon. Hard to fade, easy to piss darker. Longhair flattened by a divine flash, K Tate poetic, organ music ghosted. Arms funneled.

Nuttown City Limits. Looked up, birdshadow. Followed communication lines, stopped dead at alleyend. One last phone pole, a sad root canal.

Rolled his trollbox, #10 sturdy, little things picked up from Uncle Dick O, claimed #8s were too small for animal pet corpses, #12s bouncy.

Pole ramrod straight, sun bleached but for a square-missing kid box?-magenta staples clue. Midget high, a discolorized faintly discordant

windbent sign, peroxide plutonium blue. St. Vitus Dance First Church of Solipsism. Here's the kicker, Mike Dixon, pastor of arms. Conversion.


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