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.

85 Redlatex invitation

K Tate and Lala settled into an easy rhythm, the days sliding under the door and into the void, Chicago streets teeming, Panopticon humming.

The glass globe empty, no sign of activity from Kindred or Dick Overtone, the chase petrified, on hold, if it ever existed, brainstreamed.

K Tate took a job unloading carrots and beets at FoodFeud, pallets disgorging vegetables by the ton, he grew stronger by the day, musclepop.

Lala rode his brainstream through thunderclaps concussive, interpreting future past, but she could sense his timeslippage was nearly done.

Some sudden event, some unexpected smacker, some sneeze or snort or clanger. K Tate on the edge now, it wouldn't take much to send him home.

Brainstream dwindling, the beckoning embrace of 2012, life where it belonged, where data blew through leafless winter oaks, up city noses.

It happened on a dull gray Wednesday at a quarter to three. K Tate had just lifted a bushel of onions onto his shoulder and there he was.

Kindred standing near the powerlift, still as stone, flat eyes cold. K Tate defenseless, Kindred programmed by Dick Overtone, time to kill.

But Kindred softened. How could he kill his own son? He lifted the onions from K Tate's trembling hands, 90 pounds as if the box was empty.

And just like that, K Tate's brainstream ended, he was lit from within neonblue and flaring, countdown to the future, Lala ready to ride.

Kindred: Take me with you. Grabbing K Tate's arm and electronpull surge snapwhipped all three of them forward, tumbling dice, purechance.

Vague impression of the eastern floods, New York awash, bankers adrift in leaking boats, westward ho. Across Ohio and Michigan, 30,000 feet.

In a heartblink they landed exactly where they were, in Chicagoland, behind the same foodmarket, Kindred grasping K Tate's arm, Lala too.

But now it's 2012, past was prologue, gone but not forgotten, K Tate where he belongs, liberator hero, data flowing in the air, freebasing.

Lala bone exhausted, she had been riding K Tate's 1960s brainstream for eons. Kindred wary, carried forward in time well past his own death.

Cats wandered by, skulls burned bald by datastreamsear, painless side effect of submolecular postInternet syndrome. Kindred's head expanded.

Methane Man released a red balloon, skipping pap pap pap scuffing along the brick wall of the Joy Motel, extension of self, explorer cell.

Redlatex invitation, note on redstring: Join me for an evening of realtime discussion in the restaurant at Joy Motel, come one come all.

Your rooms are reserved and paid for, courtesy of Methane Man. You'll be next to me. Kindred on one side, K Tate and Lala on the other.

K Tate pocketing the note, a glance at Kindred: Follow me. Down undulating hallways, turbines rumbling, Overtone there even when he wasn't.


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