Gold Coast, Chicago. Outside the Drake, SalSalt Suiteries, Pall Mall Mitchum stepped out rakishly and the girls swooned, a few men, as well.
The hat he wore in CAMP FEAR the cigars that one day kill him all over again, tattoed knuckles LOVE HATE souvenier of the preachery flick.
As with the arrowsmith at 39 So. State, a smudge of time had been zipped into Mitch's new fly, the past followed him out the door. Crooning.
Slapping to the beat as Genghis Khan beheaded Sal and Salt and then moved on to the 22nd century. An alleyway turned Technicolor, not good.
People shriked at CineScope, suddenly everyone seemed squished and fishey-eyed. Smoker dopers found it normal and robbed onlookers blind.
Every time Mitch snapped his fingers, he bopped a block south. Above him a faceless gargoyle blithered I Am Spartacus, sonsofbitches silence.
Whiter shades of pale grey and worse, his mission clear. People screaming streaming from the Oriental, he knew it well, screwed a dame here.
In the balcony, he knew the layout and he knew the good lays out in the shivering crowd. This is it: Pall Mall Mitchum vs. Frankenstein.
Lit a cigarette, the signature non-filter. The monster hated fire, not Frankenstein, he was thinking the producer on Babe-A Go-Go Junction.
Monster grunted, Mitchum parried. Took a puff, billboard style. Where were the cameras and where was the scotch? This was hangover square.
Swing a ding ding, Mitch on the ropes, Frank on the concrete steps arms swaying idiot savant clever. I see you, suave man, he stitched out.
To be honest, Mitch would mate with the Monster's Mate, if you know what we mean. But this was the first film, 1931, Frankenstein confused.
The monster swiped at our man Mitch, who mugged the crowds every moment he had. A guy who could beat the bad guy with only his good looks.
Should name this film FRANKENSTEIN CANNOT CLIMB, make all the words rhyme, the first Pall Mall Mitchum Monster Musical, worth Millions.
In the end, Mitch, all boozed out, unreeled the film, frames of monster Frank aflame from the light of Mitch's scotch, fiends by torchlight
grabbing at shards for take home souveniers really, no really, it was him, Pall Mall Mitchum was back from the dead I give you droll Lazarus
Clapped his hands, signed for the sequel (he wanted to boff that white-streaked baby bad so bad), then strolled off to catch the elevated.
Conductor announced: This is Horselover Fat, I'll be tripping you out for the next fifteen stops. Free blotter acid and Cubs tickets here.
He loved being back, not knowing this wasn't his story, the distortions behind him changing immediate futures. Methane Man felt sad re: RIP.
Such a cool adversary for Dick Overtone, but that was for other realities, the snowflake earths, not the ones spit out by Joy Motel turbines.
CLICK TO READ NEXT CHAPTER
A twitter novel
The Boston Phoenix says: "Joy Motel is a microblogging book worth scrolling upward for."
Joy Motel is an unconventional sci-fi narrative that was written in real time in 140 character bursts on Twitter, the Internet's fastest-growing social networking platform.
It takes its freeform, disconnected style from the randomness of the Twitterstream itself.
This is a novel for the 21st century, captured in quick bytes by a 5-time Bram Stoker Award Finalist and a Gold Award winning adman, who are transcribing the 'brainstream' flowing inside the neural net of its lead character, Kindred.
He has unknowingly purchased an untested, corrupt brainstream from a black market uploader, which has become an uneraseable part of Kindred's persona as he grapples with an ever-shifting sense of reality, dreams that twist into nightmares, and unreliable perceptions of time and space.
At the center of his struggle, a psychiatrist he calls Psychdaddy is attempting to resolve Kindred's repressed childhood memories of the 1945 Trinity nuclear blast in New Mexico and decode his father's role in a radical collective of bomb-worshippers called the 12 Disciples.
No comments:
Post a Comment