Kindred and Sunday Benbow hand in hand on Walton, heading over to Michigan on a rumor. They say Sinatra popped through Overtone's skyrip.
When he was a kid Kindred pushed a bigcar highspeed through the desert with Frankie crooning as his soundtrack. Been in his head ever since.
Cop swarm guns out yellow tape two men down. I knew those guys, Kindred tells Sunday. Not personal, but I've seen their faces on posters.
Sal and Salt, muttered a big sergeant, Who'd a thunk these lugs could go down? Ain't they bin drivin' this bus? This thing is their idea.
Kindred pushed his way into the melee, elbows up. What the? Two humanholograms vibrating on the sidewalk, fakedatamagnets, not real guys.
He thrust his hand into Sal's heaving chest and pulled out the zonecapacitor and flipped it to a detective. It emitted a sadsingsong tweet.
Play that back, he told him. You'll get the whole story: Methane Man, Dick Overtone, Trinity, Kindred Tate... The cop stopped him. Tate?
What's Kindred Tate got to do with it? I heard boywonder timeskipped outta here and he ain't never comin' back. Oh, he's back, Kindred said.
There was a softclatter coming from Salt, like teeth chattering, or... a lobster dancing on a glass table. You hear that? Kindred demanded.
That's a million keyboards tapping, datadancing on Twitter, he's channeling the lifestreams though his capacitor. Vibrating damn netizen.
These guys aren't dead. Aren't even here. They're up in the sky somewhere, pulling strings. That's why Sinatra is on his way now, in 2012.
Limo sharked into the curb and Ol' Blue Eyes slid out, stood looking. Everyone followed his gaze. Pall Mall Mitchum ambling along, icecool.
Mitch glanced at Frankie, turned away, kept on softshoeing. Hooded cobra eyes, sneer, get outta my way bud, I don't care, I just don't care.
On his arm a liquid platinum blonde wearing stilettos, which set in motion all her femdelicious jigglybits as she uphurried to keep apace.
Sinatra mad, climbed back in the car and rolled away toward Oak Street Beach. Kindred put an arm around Sunday's waist and pulled her close.
Methane Man drifted above, what to do? Chicago definitely the coolest place in the universe now, with Dick Overtone's skyrip leaking time.
Clockchaos running rampant, decades tumbling end over end, years intersecting, passing through like lostnighttrains, ghostriders on the sky.
Sadeyed Mitch on the beach, early evening empty, water flat and black, sunlight dissipating. I got me an idea, honey, he drawls to his doll.
She's rubbing bare feet, stilettos off, curve of thigh sweeping up to softplaces a man from the 1940s shouldn't be thinking about in public.
Watch this, he says, and damned if he didn't walk upon the water, Hollywood man like they don't make 'em no more, doin' his own sweet thing.
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.
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