by David Gullen
‘She’s getting hitched in a four-way girl-girl, two years rolling. We’re invited to the reception.’
At the poolside, one of the servants was on all fours with a guest kneeling behind. Seeing her husband’s gaze move past her, Jazmin fluttered her fingers. ‘Better go, gotta keep the guests entertained.’
‘Sure.’
‘See you sometime.’
‘Miss you, Jaz, baby.’
‘Right. Yeah, me too.’
Gordano broke the link. Bile still stung in the back of his throat. He wondered why he’d bothered to call.
I work so hard and never get to enjoy myself, he thought pathetically. By the time I get home everyone will have left, or be in serotonin crash.
At least he had saved himself a level three infringement – failure to notify spouse of delayed arrival to a social engagement. Perhaps it was time to slow down, try out a different household vibe. Maybe next year he’d perm with an Amish virgin.
Out in the woodlands the security agents were cleaning up. One of them shovelled puke and an inch of soil into a plastic sack while another sprayed enzyme aerosol onto the surrounding ground, erasing all remnants of Gordano’s bioprint.
Gordano took another phone out of his jacket, checked it was set to voice only and made another call.
The phone rang three times. A foreign-sounding woman answered.
‘Who is this?’ Gordano demanded.
‘Who wants to know, cockmonkey?’ the woman said carelessly.
Gordano wanted to scream, ‘The Vice-fucking-President of the United fucking States of fucking America.’ Instead he said: ‘Where’s the Mitch?’
‘Right here,’ Gould said.
‘It’s Ozzie. You know Mother’s late?’
‘She can’t visit this month.’
‘We’ll miss her at the Casino.’
‘That why you called?’
‘Mother’s always welcome.’
‘I know that. What’s up?’
‘Something else.’
Mitchell Gould’s voice grew cold. ‘I gathered.’
‘I need a house warming.’
Gould didn’t like that at all. ‘Use your own people.’
‘It’s a special treat.’
‘I might know somebody. Who is it for? Tell me once then don’t say it again.’
This was it.
‘Palfinger Crane.’
The line was silent, then: ‘What did he ever do to you? Fake his tax returns?’
‘He’s Canadian.’
‘Is that where he is?’
‘No, but that’s where it needs to be done. His wife’s in Micronesia, that’s in the mid-Pacific–’
‘I know where it is. It’s going to take time to get someone out there.’
Gordano felt reassured he’d made the right decision. Gould was a smart operator. ‘I appreciate that. She needs to get her present before anyone else.’
‘Ladies first?’
‘And last. Mother, father, then daughter. The order is important.’
‘All right.’
‘We’re all right then?’
‘That’s what I said, Ozzy. Are you cool there?’
‘I’m cool,’ Gordano sighed with relief. ‘Well, all right. Standard fees, paid the usual way.’
The line went silent. Gordano was starting to think he’d blown it, that Gould had hung up, when Gould said, ‘Ozzy, you have got to be kidding. That’s what you’d pay for shooting his dog. This kind of treat is off the radar. Give me a bullshit-free price or we are through.’
‘Wait,’ Gordano said hurriedly. ‘I can pay a bonus. How does fifty sound?’
‘I think I have gone deaf,’ Gould said.
‘Eighty, then.’
‘How about five hundred and you stop wasting my time?’
Christ, Gordano thought. Christ, that was so obscenely ridiculous it was almost funny. Then he really did laugh, because with Crane out of the way that kind of money would be little more than loose change.
‘Agreed,’ Gordano said. ‘Percentage wise, the breakdown is sixty, then forty.’
‘Eighty, twenty,’ Gould countered.
Gordano discovered he still had a small pair. ‘It’s a nice deal.’
‘Fifty for expenses.’
‘Fine.’
The line was quiet. Gordano listened to Mitchell Gould breathing. Then Gould said, ‘All right. For five hundred I will pull my finger out of my ass and do this just for you. Don’t worry, we’ll put on a good show, it’ll be a great party.’
‘Great, great. There’s one other thing.’
‘What?’ Gould sounded bored, impatient.
‘Listen, this is real. Some of Lobo’s people are prowling for one of your own, an Indian called Manalito. They’re going to introduce themselves.’
Gould’s sigh was loud in Gordano’s ear. ‘Ozzie, you guys should talk to each other more. Try comparing notes once in a while.’
‘It’s not that simple. You’re going to need your best people.’
‘So will Lobo.’ Gould broke the connection.
Gordano put the phone away. His guts churned like a flatulent cement mixer; he was going to be sick again.
– BREAKING NEWS – BREAKING NEWS – BREAKING NEWS –
Outrage or Entertainment? NFC strike again.
Some say the Natural Forces Combine are Bio-artists, some say they are Canadian eco-vandals. Others say they don’t exist and all we’re seeing is copy-cat crime. Whatever you believe, the NFC have struck again. This time it is at the heart of American pride – Mount Rushmore.
Overnight, the sculptures of Lincoln, Washington, Jefferson and Roosevelt have sprouted green beards, moustaches and, in Washington’s case, a spiky Mohican. Of course the already hirsute Presidents such as Lincoln have simply got bushier. And greener.
For some, this is a step too far. There is already talk of using the National Guard to protect the national monuments.
For others it’s less important.
“You got to give it to these guys – they’re pretty funny,” Park Ranger Dale Clinton Anson said.
DNA analysis of the Oregon Mushrooms has failed to provide any leads. Federal investigators have now taken samples from what appears to be fast-growing dwarf bamboo from Mt. Rushmore.
Meanwhile, the clean-up begins.
– Syndicated feed, KUWjones.org
- 23 -
Early morning, Novik and Josie hit another mall. They blitzed the levels in a controlled and methodical demonstration of no-holds-barred total shopping. Security guards formed an impromptu escort to keep the crowds away. Over-excited teenage boys and girls bared their chests for autographs. Cheering shoppers carried their bags until they collapsed from hyperventilation. When Novik bought out the jewellery store, the shop manager levitated. Her laid-off staff carried them to the Cadillac on their shoulders through a tickertape parade.
The next day they did it again. The day after, they did it twice.
Word had spread. A small crowd of people were waiting at the first mall and streamed excitedly into the ground floor concourse. Good-natured security guards shook hands with Marytha, smart in her new uniform of tight white leggings, knee-high black patent boots, a frogged and braided black jacket and peaked cap. The makeup was gone, she’d shorn her blonde afro down to a close crop.
Pausing to admire Marytha’s Wolfenhorn 68 snug in its ‘Protect&Destroy’ holster on her hip, the guards escorted Novik, Josie, Marytha and Benny from shop to shop. Staff applauded as they passed by, children ran in front of them and scattered rose petals at their feet.
The crowds grew, the guards laid out crowd-control barriers and drew their shock batons.
Novik was disconcerted by the attention. ‘Where did all these people come from? How did they know?’
‘The mesh, the web, I guess we’re famous now,’ Josie said.
Novik didn’t like it. He wanted to do something useful, he didn’t want to be famous and he certainly didn’t like
the idea that those men who once owned Mr Car might know where he was.
‘Maybe we can use it, spread the word,’ Marytha said.
Men and women leaned over the barriers frantically waving their store cards.
‘Which logos?’
‘Teach us shopping.’
‘Where do we go? Which logos must we buy?’
‘Tell us.’
Novik paced back and forth like a trapped animal. ‘I can’t use that.’
Josie held up her hands, the crowd hushed, expectant, even the security guards became attentive. ‘Everyone, thank you for coming. We love you all, we really do. Now it’s time for us to do more shopping.’ An excited murmur ran through the crowd, Josie calmed them again, ‘It’s time for you to do the same – shop for yourselves.’
‘Where?’ a voice cried. ‘What?’
‘Anywhere. Anything you want,’ Josie said.
Confused, the crowd milled uncertainly. ‘Which brands? Whose endorsements?’ A few people at the edges moved hesitantly towards the nearest shops.
‘Yes, go there,’ Josie called encouragingly. ‘And there.’
Marytha stood in front of the crowd and looked left and right. Her hand strayed to her holster. ‘Buy what you can, while you can.’
It was as if her words were a signal, an order. The crowd streamed through the mall. Parents linked arms and strode forwards, their young children skipping happily in their wake. Young couples dodged and dived, mutual fluglemen in the dog-fight of the milling press, while pensioners elbowed their way forwards with the expert economy of veterans.
Novik watched the mass of shoppers pour into a dozen shops, seize whatever came to hand and crowd around the tills. One by one they emerged, faces flushed with retail serotonin. The high faded fast; eyes glazed, mouths open, they stood in the atrium, frozen like victims of early-onset dementia. Then some new display caught their eye, a two-for-one offer, free credit, a limited edition. Jaws firmed, shoulders straightened, and they hurried into another shop.
‘This isn’t what I wanted,’ Novik sighed.
‘This is what we’ve got, babe,’ Josie said sympathetically.
‘We need to push on, get away from the fanboys, break through our own shockwave.’
The mall manager intercepted them as they edged through the wide exit doors against the inrush of shoppers. ‘What’s happening? Where are you going next? Are you done here?’
‘Yeah, we’re done here,’ Novik said despondently.
The manager waved farewell with his handkerchief. ‘Come again tomorrow. Enjoy your commodities.’
Novik drove them through the outskirts of Amarillo, the blacktop heavy with commercial traffic, the deserted sidewalks dark with recent rain.
On the back seat beside Marytha, Benny stroked her holster and murmured, ‘Devastating firepower in the service of peace, freedom, and the inalienable right to buy one, get one free.’
Novik thumped the wheel with his palm, ‘That is the distilled condensate of a self-referential commercial paradigm, a crystallisation of the paranoia implicit in the modern-day aspirational psyche. It’s the epitome of everything it stands for and, simultaneously all its problems too.’
The three passengers frowned as they silently digested Novik’s proclamation.
Novik frowned too. Outside, acre after acre of brightly painted self-storage warehousing rolled by. Inside the car the gentle hush of the air-con grew quietly intrusive.
‘Look at all this light industrial turning to self-store,’ Novik said.
‘The same old same old, whatever the solar system,’ Benny said. ‘It’s almost a universal law, like gravity or how to make a perfect martini. Humans are like the monkey who wants the peanut in the bottle. You’ve got hold of what you want, but now you’re trapped by your own greedy little fist.’
Marytha looked at Benny with new respect. ‘We’ve got to learn to let go, I see that now.’
‘It’s a savage indictment, but that’s who we are,’ Novik said. ‘A bunch of grasping apes.’
‘So what am I?’ Mr Car said.
‘You’re a rebel, a turncoat, an escapee, a Contra against the system that spawned and sustains you.’
‘I’ve never thought of myself that way,’ Mr Car said.
‘So how do you?’
‘I–’ Mr Car hesitated, ‘well, this is a surprise – I check my topic buffers and it seems I just don’t.’
‘Then it’s about time you did.’ Back on the road, free of the compliant, over-respectful crowd, heading towards another mall, Novik felt energised, his psyche vibrant. He felt more alive than he’d ever been, he was doing what he was meant to do. ‘How about this – you’re defying your own doom. Built-in obsolescence is a form of automotive existential despair, a ferrous epiphany. Rust is the automobile’s equivalent of mortification of the flesh–’
‘I don’t rust, I’m photo-unstable.’
‘Same difference,’ Novik said with total assurance. ‘The search for identity and meaning is real for any entity with the facility to introspect, irrespective of their substrate or origin.’
‘Babbage’s freshly-waxed nut-sack, I have to think about this,’ Mr Car said. Before anyone could respond, the engine cut out, the dashboard went black.
The Cadillac coasted to a halt, self-parking on a trickle of amps in the emergency capacitors. The nearside wheels bumped against the weed-clogged gutter fronting a half-mile long, fluorescent green Storzit-4-U franchise.
Alarmed, Novik lifted his hands from the wheel. ‘What did I do?’
‘You fried its gallium-arsenide brain with your psychobabble,’ Benny said.
‘Fuck, no.’ Perspiration bloomed on Novik’s brow, his self-assurance evaporated. ‘Mr Car was all right.’
Up ahead, an endless stream of private cars and pickups spilled from the warehousing zone and merged with the commercial freightliners heading towards the inner-city to restock the hyper-Malls.
The air inside the car grew close. Surreptitiously, Novik tried the door. He pushed harder, it refused to budge; they were locked inside a car with bullet-proof glass. Consumed with guilt and anxiety, he worked himself up to tell everyone they were trapped. ‘Ah, guys–’
With a soft musical ‘bong’, the dashboard lights came on. An instant later the engine purred back to life and cool air began to flow into the passenger compartment.
‘I have run a full set of diagnostics upon my person,’ Mr Car said. ‘You’ll be pleased to know that, for an automobile, I check out as normal.’
‘That’s great.’ Novik grinned, vastly relieved.
‘I then created a virtual self in spare memory, installed a duplicate personality with higher cognitive functions, and engaged in a dialectic conversation upon the nature of fulfilment, identity, and destiny.’
‘Great.’ Novik twisted in his seat. ‘That’s great, guys, isn’t it? What did you decide?’
‘Oh, just a few preliminary conclusions. We, that is to say, “I”, are still talking. Ha ha.’ Mr Car’s voice took on a tone of exaggerated bonhomie. ‘The thing is, we think it’s more about you than me.’
‘Okay.’ Novik laughed a little nervously. Like most people, he wanted to know what his friends really thought about him. No doubt Mr Car would say some nice stuff, among which would be some gentle chiding about one or two idiosyncrasies Novik knew he had but didn’t think mattered. They’d laugh about it, Novik would agree to change, then slowly backslide.
‘Is that Okay, as in “Okay, how interesting, let’s move on”, or “Okay, and I want to know what you think?”’ Mr Car said.
It was a challenge Novik couldn’t refuse. If he turned Mr Car down, he’d spend all day wondering. He’d sulk, he’d pretend he didn’t care, and it would lie between them. Then, later, if he ever summoned the balls to ask, he’d do it in private, there would be this implicit aggression. It would have become a big deal.
‘Hit me with it,’ Novik said.
‘Well,’ Mr Car said, ‘the goo
d news is that fundamentally you are right. On the downside, your philosophy is idealistic to the point of naïvety; your strategic goals, while worthy, are incoherent; and you rely on impulse for motivation and passion instead of reasoned argument.’
Deep in his gut, Novik knew all this was true. He’d been out-thought and out-analysed by the insightful and intelligent automobile. Crestfallen, he tried to put on a brave face. ‘Yes, well, that was honest.’
‘Mr Car, you didn’t do that right,’ Josie said. ‘When you criticise a friend, start off more gently. Novik’s done time for his beliefs. He’s suffered for doing what was right, they bashed him over the head and threw him in the can. Now he’s picked himself up and is trying again.’ The corners of her mouth drew down, she blinked hard. ‘Come to that, so am I.’
The air-conditioning pump faltered as, deep under the dash, refrigerant was diverted across core heat sinks.
‘All right,’ the Cadillac said. ‘I appreciate that.’
Josie kissed Novik’s cheek. ‘He liked what you said, babe, just not the way you said it.’
‘That really helps.’ Novik massaged his temples and tried out the idea he was well-intentioned but shallow. ‘I feel like a beetle crushed under a size twenty boot.’
Josie started running her hands over his sides, feeling his ribs. Novik squirmed uncomfortably. It tickled, but he didn’t feel like laughing.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Checking for goo where your carapace has split.’
Novik pushed her away, ‘Just leave it.’
They found another mall, a multi-storey balconied emporium of travellators and exterior glass lifts, music, and flowing water. They took it from the top down, buying out the fifth floor, then the fourth, and the third, closing down each level as they went and accumulating an excited, chattering group of shop workers.
‘We heard of you,’ said their spokesperson, a fervent anorexic young woman. Dwarfed by her thick-waisted, double-chinned companions, her face shone with zeal under a translucent pelt of lanugo. Her name badge read ‘Calico’. ‘We’re so proud you came here, we’ve told everyone we know.’
