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72 Django Sherwin

My name's Django Sherwin, by the by. Guy looked down in the box, K Tate too slow to think, ponytail flops. Dig, this was me, flyer in hand.

Scrounging more, maybe he should take the unattended book and call it even. Django bent over crack-assed in the box, pulling the unknown.

Here we go, man! Haven't seen these since my conversion. Held up one of those wheels, you pump it, it spark twirls patriotic pump whir pump.

Tapped the torn photo, there it was. Pant pocket. I had a BB Gun, too. Guy was talking like he was just talking. Tme for the cattle prods.

K Tate look I get it push hard you read PKD you're one of the kids you're in a cult good bad I don't care you know the girl fucked my brain

now tell me how close maybe 97% you think? Fill me in before I make like adding a few limbs to my box of trolls, treats for the next town.

We all know about you, everyone in the church, from the color of your brainstream spooling from Lala's cleavage. My favorite part. Wink.

Your head was screwed on wrong a minute ago, right? Django smiled that picket fence smile from in the alley. Don't lie, she orgasms from it.

Likes it when she sees the owner of the brainstream, plays with him, wiggle the thalamus, psychotronic voyeurism, man. Did it with me once.

K Tate thought of epileptic lines from kidtime. K dad took him to an El Paso clinic. Colored lines on the floor, some weaved down new halls.

Red for emergency, black for ICU, pretty pink for pharmacy. K dad pulled him along, colors jumping stringthwang. White, chaste suicides.

Was that the blue? K Tate wavered between white and black in his thoughts of that day. Got me, from Django, pumping the turbine sparkler.

Mine was grape jelly sticky, that's what Vonnie Varro told me. She tried to eat it, but she's always stoned. No, really?: K Tate thoughts.

Just sayin', you stick around, I'm sure someone will tell you. Hell, Lala might tell you when she reels you in, all mindmushy. Loves that.

We were all abducted that same summer, '62, guy sold us to carnivals all over New Mexico. Trinity freaks. We all hooked up on

Just before the old net fell. Met back here, Lala was in the building's soul, whatever that means. Connected us all in our carny freak colors.

Mike Dixon claims he's seen her internally, again, whatEVER that means. Django asked K Tate for some weed. K Tate held up the toothpick box.

Nice stash, man. But K Tate recalled the eye and put it back in his pocket. Tell me more. Saddened, longhair told of the Visagerists' birth.

The Sylph took several voyeur lovers at a time, allentangled. Everyone shared in the images. Beheaded bees in Sante Fe, pulped clowns on I-7.

The brighter the color, the better the mix, clownpaintybest, it was like a volcanic high. One day, a stray strand, a memory slipknotted out.

Your dad, pal. It was PKD's brainstream, stuck in one of the Trinity kids' interbilical cords. The Solipsists changed their names, hail PKD!


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