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74 Going to hell

He wanted to talk, to explain. Lala hushed him, told him they knew everything, his brainstream separated from docdad and Lindred by tonals.

Picked up on those good vibrations, she told him, but she could see in his eyes that he wanted to talk. But she knew everything he could say

K Tate confronted her with simple truth, or so he hoped. Otherwise, he was insane. I can tell you what I hoped to do here, right? Unknown?

Tell me it's unknown. How can you read a brainstream that hasn't happened yet? So I do have something I can tell you. Lala kept to herself.

I came down here because I wanted to see the home I grew up in, you know of my adventures since I left the East Coast Ruins. Never got home.

Missing kids signs knocked me off my center, plus I was feeling homesick. Grabbed up those toys, symbols of my youth, K Tate shrugged.

He was in a robe now, as was Lala. Astronaut white. Her eyes blue dot Earth, mouth red-lipped Saturn. Go on, she encouraged him. (Bad idea).

If I hadn't seen those signs, those toys, I would have gone home, I saw myself peeling away old wallpaper in the kitchen, where I wrote some

odd phrases, I can't recall. Maybe it would've meant something, maybe the place was fixed up and the whole wall was gone. I should still go.

Tell me what you think you wrote, Lala's voice so soft. I wrote lots of things, Lala, sweet Lala, I wrote all over that house. Fed notes

to the rats, I fed them to the rats. Everything I knew. While my dad fucked that Nazi bitch I thought looked like Supergirl because I was 9.

Lala felt K Tate tense above her, she stared at the church in its glory. Let it all go, let it leave. To be a, a brainstream believer and ah

a homecoming queen. Is this what he thought of her? Someone to love? Take the last brainstream to Clarksville, I'll be there by four thirty.

Here's how it worked, me and all those notes ahead of my time, brainbopped equations quantumlifically, am I holding you too tight now, Lala?

She couldn't answer, the lightmonucules that led from her heart to K Tate's brain above was colorshifting fast. If you must know, I'll say.

I could have been with Karin Offal, not that fat slug dopepopadoping fool the words harshsound ingoffan dwrong ggh I fixed him the bastard.

I'd kill him with his own wait a better idea even Lala saw Roy G. Biv big time, mnemonics redorange yellowgreen blueindigo viol--snapped.

Newcolor faint. No longer K Tate's voice, no longer a body still in its vice words spun like turbines smelled like desperation sweat.

The Joy Motel is a singularity, a black hole in which not even the light from your suckable brainstreams can escape. So much fun to mess up.

The pull of this, let's face it, STUPID PLACE, this black hole that Kindred ended up shaping into a populated landscape while taking a crap.

In his sleep mind you, shitting up ideas in his sleep. I owned him though, bitter love betrayal. Angling walls, creating identities, pasts.

Histories, past and present. Am I squeezing you too hard, dear? Tell me when I do. Lala could smell his breathcough. He carried that guilt.

Trinity. Fretted of those films, the grainies, the buildings bitblasted. He sighed Going to hell in 1945 and I thought he said joy motel.

At least I won, he can't ever escape each reality. Turn see me, La la. Brainstream teal. Squeezehard errr. I was here couldn't talk nothing.

I was Uncle Dick O, grinning through smoke, methane man in a broken helmet, missing one eye. I'm an Exaggerist, he/I said, strangling Lala.


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