76 Silver freezepop

Your dad?: Lala, breasts bouncing as they went down the fire escape, both oblivious that the 3rd floor of Joy Motel was sentient yet silent.

Third Floor was blasted with some kind of neutralizing thingie from Overtone's Impossible Wristwatch, he was ready for it, but not methane.

When the dude in the helmet was changing tanks, the gas drifted up through the vents, neutralizer shimmyshake, 3rd floor 2 words: true form.

No one saw, solipsistically speaking, K Tate and Lala were lalong gagone and Dick O and K Dad were checking rooms, never saw the tentacles.

Third Floor shifted back once the methane tank was replaced, Lala surprised the shit out of K Tate by brainstreaming a '64 Dodge Dart, vroom

The two bad guys in this particular story found the room with the trollwalls, the last room seemed was filled with sodomized parakeets.

Methane Man, the Saturnian Agent, held his breath, but the bad guys stopped and did not pass go. They knew the kids had split, secondsmissed

You know where we're going, right? Lala said. K Tate noticed her breasts never really stopped bouncing, maybe that was brainstream storage.

Django told him he did see the streams disappear into her ample cleavage, mysteries to be solved later, lots of them. For now, directions.

This wasn't Ft. Bliss, or even West Texas. No humidity. Grey skies like dull nickel. Know your exits, Uncle Dick O had said: outfox him.

Go the roundabout way, not the way Dick & Dad would expect. Pull a Sons of Dukes of Hazzard, a film before the fall, zip past Scrip City.

Cut left at Schlitz Congoleum and How To Make A Pretty Model Hobby Shop, down a cobblestone alley and into the woods, find a path, go go go.

Sat there for long nascent minutes, K Tate smelling the sweat on Lala's neck. Watch, listen, sure enough, curseswears kickthecan, giving up.

Back out slowwwww, exhaust point north. On the run, for crimes we DID commit, for all they knew. Different times, different places. Chicago.

They were near Chicago, the greensigns said so. 12 miles. Torrance Avenue off-ramp straightaway. Find the damn post office, big importance

Blue sign like the one for St. Vitus, thankfully no missing kid stapled above it. Post office on Torrance Avenue, upsydaisy onramp baby.

He stopped with Joy Motel below, moreso Chicago north and visible from their vantage point. An unruined city, but wrong somehow. No Sears.

No Hancock. A silver freezepop the tallest building. When is this?, first thing in K Tate's brain after thinking about Lala's breasts again.

Streetsign, PO dead ahead. Dad and Dick dead below, back and forth, human lattices only with guns. Blended in with other cars, lookalikes.

Cars with fins, men with hats, old timey films more popular than porn in his time. Except for hentai, but that was because of the Japanese.

Almost missed the place, skid stop. Carhonk polite-like. No road rage here in now. K Tate could like this, settle back, fuck Lala right here.

Saw a billboard advertising the new '65 Chevelle. Might explain something. Lala pulled his sleeve, nervous. Saw shirt front, who was Dylan?

Scanned for other signs of the times, surprisingly few, Plenty of grey sky, in his life, cell phone icons hovered ear level, ads in eyes.

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