“He went to your concert last night,” says the phone tearfully, “and we’re looking everywhere–”
Dusty hears a noise beneath his feet and snaps the phone shut. “Stowaway!” he shouts.
Snozz lunges from his bunk, revolver already blowing holes in the floor. Dusty scrambles to the driver, who’s yelling “What the shit! What the SHIT!”
“Pull over,” Dusty orders.
“I will if he doesn’t shoot out my brake line! Why is–”
“Kids grow up too fast on a tour bus,” says Dusty grimly.
“So?”
“You don’t understand,” says Dusty. The bus does stop then, very suddenly. It begins to tilt forward.
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
Outer space is wet, apparently.
“Your–your hand isn’t exploding,” crackles Nixon over the radio. “Or freezing. Your hand isn’t–”
“No,” says Truly, frowning, waving it around gloveless. “I mean, it is pretty cold.”
“Of course!” giggles Nixon. “Nobody ever tried just sticking a hand out the window up here oh God!” Nixon is kind of cracking up.
“That fucker Hooke was right,” Truly murmurs. “He was right about aether! Which means…”
She takes a deep breath, closes her eyes and unrings her helmet. There it is: the Music of the Spheres!
Which, she notes with mounting suspicion, sounds like Skynyrd.
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
“Look out!” says Blaise, gagging. “I’m gonna buzzcast!”
Jean holds out the bucket, turning away and closing his eyes; Fermi watches with beady interest. Blaise horks and chokes and finally gets it out, a new phrase: ray-trace marketing.
“What does that even mean?” Fermi says.
“We never know at first.” Jean rinses it in the sink. “Not until we’ve dropped it into the right water-cooler talks and hidden it in hotshot PDAs.”
“Maybe it’s like pinging your target demo with throwaway campaigns, as a way to mine–”
“Not done yet,” groans Blaise, and gets p2geist all over Fermi’s shoes.
“Not all of us,” puffs Shawn, staggering out onto the roof, “can get up here so fast.”
“You didn’t even spill my latte!” says Lissa happily. “Remind me to tip you.”
“Ha ha.” Shawn hands her the drink. “What do you do? While you’re waiting for me?”
She sips her coffee and walks to the roof’s edge. “Look at the skyline,” she says. “I love it. I don’t think I could do this kind of thing anywhere else.”
Shawn grins. “Nothing as urban as a superhero.”
Lissa turns to smile back at him, and a giant robot lizard steps on her.
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
She had no pants clean so she wore the damn overalls, damn it, and everyone will think she actually wore a costume to school. A Farmer Tally costume.
“You need a straw hat,” chuckles Theo, behind her.
“Hrk,” says Tally.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you!” He pounds on her back. He’s wearing jeans and a t-shirt.
“Not dressed up,” Tally manages, “only losers dress up.” She couldn’t look stupider in front of him.
“You don’t like my costume?” he says soberly. An endless pause.
And he winks and it kills her, just kills her, the way Halloween kills October.
“I want you to make me a promise, Sarge,” chokes PFC Stumbo.
Vijay grasps his slick hand and nods. Stumbo’s hand is ancient and spotted; Vijay’s is soft and smooth, like any fifteen-year-old’s, but his eyes say this isn’t the first death he’s watched.
“You’ll be one of them before long,” says Stumbo. “Few years now.”
“Never,” Vijay grates. “I’ll die first.”
“Don’t forget that the young and the old have rights, can think–can–don’t let the Age War happen again, Sarge,” Stumbo heaves. “Don’t let.”
“I don’t want to grow up,” whispers Vijay, and closes Stumbo’s eyes.
Tuesday, November 1, 2005
“This town has no scene,” says Maddox as he slaps down the Arts & Entertainment Pullout. “Scene morkus est.”
“Almost positive that’s not Latin.” Tiscali flips it open: the only bands it lists are tour acts and tributes.
“We can’t run a label when all the local talent is… is skating! Or covering the Gin Blossoms.” Maddox pulls at his hair. “Where’s the Scotch?”
“You can have root beer,” says Tiscali, and thinks, the scene’s not gone. It’s just got no air. The sparks don’t die; there will be new bands–gasping, drowning, dying as they rise. The scene’s a phoenix underwater.
Wednesday, November 2, 2005
“Oh, man,” says Caraway, “with a name like that you must have gone through–”
Satan smiles. “It’s just the Hebrew for ‘adversary.’ Like being named Buster.”
“Bet you had fun at school,” chuckles Caraway.
Silence.
“Anyway, your application seems fine,” Caraway mutters. “Just looking for seasonal work?”
“With an eye toward the future, if there’s a permanent opening. And if I stay in town.”
“Well, bring me three forms of ID tomorrow, and the job’s yours.”
“Good to hear.” Satan sounds relieved; they stand and shake.
“Welcome to Pet A Bit, Satan,” says Caraway. “I hope you like hickory and piss.”
Thursday, November 3, 2005