71 VisagerNet

He was chillboned, like when the overhead fans in that West Texas diner were turbinethumpfast and he walked in drizzledsweaty. Lala smiled.

K Tate, out the door, feeling behind him like a reversible blind man. Left hand felt the heat. Legs couldn't back pedal, righty waving bye.

Almost fell over his box holding the past few decades. Headhurthead hurt. Sunlandsha doh! Shake it off, he could see the blue lint all over.

Rubbed his scalp maniclike, stomped feet wintersome, twirl-de-dirlded, head still off the gyroscope radar. Had to be the waffle myositus.

Now he was thinking not-sense. Was this K dad minus meds minusFREEWILLFREETHOUGHT stop it, just slow it down. You are not him, not at all.

It was her, had to be. No woman had looked at him with such intensity in years, except the crack whore near the turbine roar waffle house.

What the hell, he left his emotions back in Lake Manhattan, one quick blowjob on that Hell's Kitchen flat, Freedom Tower falling as he grew.

Money meant nothing, tricks for free. Long, loving looks from the girl, Lisa Sestina. He might have loved her if he took the time to rest.

Kept his eyes zeroed in vanishingpoint centered slideways konk. Foot hitting the box, yea, this radical chick had him in his no right mind.

She has you, huh? Voicewaves startled him, made a K Tate jump, brain felt like he'd been doing it for so long he could trademark the move.

Turned like a clockwork statue, must be the bluelint in his joints, plutonium poisoned, thanks K Dad, yet again he reminded himself his idea.

Think rational or you'll be batwaving, new friend. K Tate turned away from the softface in the harshdark. Longhair ponytail guy holding PKD.

New American Library edition, his dad woulda been proud, same imprint for Eddie Poe, Nel Algren, Bobby Bloch, the newsboy lesions. Big book.

VALIS, A SCANNER DARKLY, and FLOW MY TEARS, THE POLICEMASN SAID. All three on the execution list. This guy with the book had the balls.

Once McCain made Prez and Palin took over after giving him a deadstroke by letting her see a, let's face it, not bad naked nude mommy body.

Prez Palin tres conservative, fantically so. Forget Fahrenheit 451, she pronounced it Frannit and didn't get 451 meant degrees. Headshake.

Book burnings escalated in days, the chants of drill, baby, drill meant round up the readers the thinkers the romantacists for lobotomies.

Romancing the roman a clef, a few holdouts squirmed on pay-per-view Christian TV. Book sales dropped like Lisa Sestina's pants on that roof.

The stranger's book was dog-earred, dust jacket gone. K Tate smiled, K dad would've like that. Hated dust covers, used them to train dogs.

Thought you'd show up, the guy said, holding out a four-fingered hand. K Tate saw a V tattoo on the inner wrist, like a carpal tunnel scar.

There's this thing we call the VisagerNet, like the old Internet, Lala Slyph is kind of an analogue for the thing, I'll admit I don't get it.

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