by Ed Finn
A few people waved to me along the way—the guy running the BBQ stand near the waterworks, an art collector tooling past on her roadspider, a realtor friend of Dad’s on a zigzag-backed flydino. The news about my slugfoot Lincoln was out. Chatty little Louisville. Even if I hadn’t sold jack shit for a couple of years, I still had my glamour. That qrude and loofy artist, Zad Plant.
It wasn’t until Skungy was guiding me up the long green driveway to Todd Trask’s old place that I grasped that this was where Gaven Graber lived. Todd himself had died of a nasty flesh-eating disease a few years back. The word was he’d caught it at a debutante sex nurb party in New York. Trying too hard to be a jaded roué.
The nurbs had brought along some new health risks all right. Sometimes a nurb would incubate a human disease, and the bugs would leak back out a thousand times as strong. At first people hadn’t realized that could happen. But by now most of us knew better than to fuck nurbs.
Poor Todd. He’d given me my start. Naturally we’d made friends again a few weeks after the roadspider fiasco. And—just as Jane had predicted—the gory incident had helped launch my career. Todd managed to buy himself two new thoroughbred colts by flipping one of my Cold Day in Hell pieces. But my glory days were gone. At least for now.
Halfway up the driveway, I spotted the party group by the old pond where we’d picnicked when I was a boy. A rangy security guard waved me to a stop.
“I’m Zad,” I told him. “Zad Plant.”
“Right,” said the guard. “I’m Artie. Hell of a car you got. Just drive on down across the pasture.”
I swung down the gentle slope to join the gang. They were lounging on nurb chairs beneath a big oak tree, with Reba’s flydino wallowing in the pond. The flydino was pale purple, with bat wings and a pelican beak. The September sunset was coloring the sky. Very idyllic.
Even though it was not all that hot of a day, Gaven had three jumbo AC bullfrogs croaking cool, dry air—they had icicles in their mouths like white teeth. Iridescent skeeter-eater moths were fluttering around. Bluegill fish with little pink legs were walking around the edges of the pond and its cattails, rooting up worms. Gaven was making some amazing shit.
He was standing next to my wife, Jane, intently chatting her up. A mental warning bell pinged. Meanwhile Reba Ranchtree was talking with Carlo and with a pleasant-faced woman I hadn’t seen before—I figured was the Rikki Shimano whom Carlo had been talking about. Volcanic geek-girl sex, he’d said, building himself up.
Off to the side, a pale, twitchy guy was tending a fire and arranging some food at the mouth of a nurb horn of plenty. Joey Moon. I hadn’t seen him for a while, and I was a little sorry to see him sunk so low. Working on Gaven Graber’s farm. Not that I much wanted to talk to him. He’d just start running one of his wheedling cons on me.
I noticed hot dogs on the table. Cool. A nostalgic Trask farms weenie roast coming up. A full-lipped woman stood behind a table laden with drinks. She had oily skin and what I thought of as a gypsy look. Joey Moon’s wife. Now she was someone I did want to talk to. I’d seen her around, but I’d never actually met her before.
“Hi,” said Jane, walking over to me just then, graceful and composed. “Your weird car’s finally working. Very luxor.”
“The farthest I’ve driven it so far,” I said. “You look wonderful, Jane. I miss you.”
“Oh, Zad. You look nice too. And right at this minute I don’t feel like shaking you and screaming in your face until I’m so hoarse that I can’t talk.”
“We’ve done enough of that,” I said. “Both of us. I keep wondering if—”
“At least we never had children,” interrupted Jane, staving me off. “Makes things easier. But I do wish you’d get the vat of nurb paint off my balcony. I keep asking you to do this, and nothing happens. I’m ready to have someone denurbalize the slime and cart the vat to the dump. I want to put a little garden on my balcony.”
“My balcony, my balcony,” I parroted.
“Zad, let’s not keep going back to square one. The Live Art shop is yours. The apartment is mine. A clean break. Now about that vat—are you ever planning to make a slime-mold painting again?”
“I want the vat, yes. Even if I don’t paint with the mold, it’s my friend. You know how I can coax the stuff into sticking up dozens of little heads and they all jabber at one another?”
“I do like that trick,” said Jane. “But your nurb paint won’t do anything for me. I think it’s sulking. Look—let’s get someone to cart the vat over to your shop and you can keep it out back. The rain won’t hurt it. You can throw trash in it, and it’ll grow.”
“Fine. And when it gets deep enough, I’ll drown myself in it.”
“A perfect exit,” said Jane. “Your slime-mold paintings will get a nice bump in the market.”
It was nice to be talking to Jane; our conversations were like a graceful dance. “Speaking of slime—here comes the big guy.”
The creature that had carried my car was wriggling out from beneath it. A twenty-foot yellow mollusk with globular eyes on stalks.
“Eew!” exclaimed Reba, wandering over to join us. “Is that thing safe? You ride the scariest things, Zad Plant.” She mimed a comic expression of awe.
“Sluggo needs his supper,” I said, popping open my old car’s bank vault of a trunk and dumping a bushel of nurb chow onto the ground. The big yellow slugfoot was on the stuff in seconds, but not before Skungy had scampered over and claimed a nugget for his own. The slug begrudged this, and actually went for the rat, but Skungy skittered out of reach and clawed his way up my pants and shirt to find a perch on my shoulder. Finishing off the chow, the slug humped across the grass to join Reba’s flydino in the pond.
“Zad’s a pirate!” cooed Reba, not snobby at all. I had a feeling she was expecting to hook up with me tonight. Reba and Jane were good friends. Maybe they’d made a deal to hand me off.
“So you like your qwet rat?” said Gaven. He was six inches shorter than me, but bigger around. And he wore a geeky black holster with some kind of nerdy instrument in it. Not that any of this made him less confident. “Carlo tells me you’re going to be repping us in your gallery. On the winning team at last!”
“Me on your team?” I said. “Or you on my team?”
“Rude and qrude,” said Gaven, with a tight laugh. “Same old Zad. Do you know I own one of your paintings? A Cold Day in Hell: Louisville Flood.”
“That’s a good one,” I said. “I like when the Ohio overflows in the spring. The mental liberation around a natural disaster. Everything flat and shiny along River Road. Weird shit floating around. Like the inside of my head. People go down to the floodwaters and party. Atavistic.”
“I never went to many parties,” said Gaven. “You know how it was. But Jane’s helping me find my way into the qrude Louisville scene at last. The Jane Says agency.”
“You’re working for Gaven?” I asked Jane, surprised. “I hadn’t heard.”
“Working like a Trojan,” said Jane, kind of proud. “What does that expression actually mean? It’s disgusting. Anyway, yes, Gaven wants to launch a whole raft of high-profile products in Louisville. And I’ll be zinging my connections. It was my idea to let you handle the prototype qwet rats, Zad.”
“Carlo said I might be test-marketing a whole series of things,” I said, wanting to get this clear. “Like maybe qwet teep? Right, Gaven?”
“One step at a time,” said Gaven. “The qwet rats are just a start. In a month or two—well, I don’t want to rush into things. Nondisclosure!”
Jane laughed, clearly in the know. It bugged me to think of her and Gaven having secret plans. It would be just like that grotty little geek to try to get something going with my wife. His day in the sun at last.
“I do like the little ratty on your shoulder,” Jane told me. She could tell I was tense, and she wanted to cool me down. “You named him Skungy? I hear he’s practically human.”
“I contain multitudes,” said Skun
gy in a genial tone. “I aim to pee.”
“That rat bit me today,” put in Carlo.
“I saw when that happened,” said Gaven. “Show me the spot.”
“This finger,” said Carlo, sticking out his right index. “At first I thought it was healed, but, look, it’s swelling up.”
“Are you feeling any, ah, personality inflation?” asked Gaven. “Any expansion of your psychic boundaries?”
“Maybe,” said Carlo. “I’m keeping all that down with the bourbon.”
“Soldier on,” said Gaven, not seeming very worried.
“I could treat the bite with something,” said the woman whom Carlo had been talking to before. “But if it’s what Gaven and I think it is, it’s too late. I say we let it run its course. And learn from the process.”
“Agreed,” said Gaven.
“Is this whole routine some giant revenge trip?” I asked Gaven, starting to lose it. “You’ve come to Louisville to destroy your high school tormentors? Steal my wife and kill Carlo? You’re really that lame?”
“Cool it,” snapped Carlo, shoving his hand into his pocket. “Don’t blow our deal, Zad. I can take care of myself.”
“I do admire you two guys,” said Gaven, rocking back on his heels and grinning at us. Like he was watching a video. “You gotta know that. You’re the qrudes. Have you met Zad, Rikki?”
“Hi there,” she said, stepping forward. She had an odd coiffure, with her dark hair up in two flat buns—a little like lacquered mouse ears. “Rikki Shimano. I’m a fan of your paintings. All the Wet E majors at Stanford admire you. Like, yes! He knows that nurbs are beautiful!”
“Thanks,” I told Rikki, shaking her cool, dry hand. “Carlo was praising you to me, too.”
“We all need flattery,” said Rikki. “Pile it on. I’m very insecure. The bright girl with no social skills. Carlo’s latest victim.” She looked at him and giggled. “He thinks. It’s so strange coming to Kentucky from California. Like I’m visiting another country. Your secret histories. Social taboos. Folk garb.”
“Folk garb!” cackled Reba. “Are you talking about my patchwork-plaid suit with the wiggle beads?”
“I would like to know where you found that thing,” said Rikki. “I’d like to go home with one of those.”
“I’ll give you mine,” said Reba. “We’re about the same size. And it’s not an outfit I’d wear over and over.”
“I wouldn’t wear it once,” said Jane.
“Those beads,” asked Rikki. “Are they nurbs?”
“How’s Joey Moon holding up?” I asked Gaven, lowering my tone.
“He’s stuck in that qwet teep state,” said Gaven, glancing over at Joey, who wasn’t doing much of anything right now. “But Rikki and I feel that people ought to be able to adjust to it. There should be a market for it. It’s not what you expect, but even so—”
“Joey Moon!” exclaimed Skungy on my shoulder. The rat himself was kind of out of it himself, but he was half listening to some of the things we said. He raised his little voice and chirped louder. “Joey Moon!”
Joey didn’t seem to hear the rat. He was staring up into the oak tree as if lost in thought. Seized by a sudden enthusiasm, Skungy leaped to the ground and scampered over to confront his template. The qwet rat squeaked shrilly at the distracted hipster, who shook his head and kicked savagely at the quantum amplified animal, even trying to stomp on him. Abashed, the rat retreated to the dashboard of my car. The woman at the bar—Joey Moon’s wife—remonstrated gently with her husband.
Wanting to learn more, I went over and asked her for a bourbon and water. “I’m going to be marketing those rats,” I announced. “I’m Zad Plant?”
“I’m Loulou Sabado,” said the woman. I hadn’t known her name. She had a low, purring voice. “And that’s Joey Moon.” She frowned at me. “And you know all about us. Thanks to that rat.”
“I only just now got the rat,” I said, wanting to placate her. “And certainly I don’t plan to—”
“You know a good lawyer, Zad?” put in Joey Moon, a little unsteady on his feet. As usual, he seemed resentful and pissed off. And he stank like a goat. “Your friend Mr. Graber, his experiments messed me up. I’m hearing voices in my head, and it’s getting worse. Even this tree is talking. Not voices, exactly. Nudges and winks. And I know what you’re thinking about my wife, you poncey son of a bitch. I ought to—”
“Oh, stop it, Joey,” said Loulou, shaking her head. “Christ!” She set my drink on the table with a clack. “Here you are, sir.”
“I need a drink, too,” said Joey. His goat smell was invading my nose, sensitizing me to his tangled thoughts.
“No, you don’t,” said Loulou, fed up. “Sit down and stop bothering people.”
Before slinking off, Joey addressed me again. “Don’t forget that I’m an artist too, Zad. Even though you won’t show me in your gallery. I’m not a hotshot who gets everything handed to him on a silver platter. But I’m just as good as you.”
“Sure, man. You’ve had it hard.” Anything to calm him down.
Joey went and sat down at the base of the tree, glaring at us and making odd little gestures meant to show that he knew our inner thoughts. It seemed that, as long as I could smell him, I was in some weird, partial teep connection with him. For sure he was accurate in what he was reading from me—my fear, repulsion, and guilt toward him—and my lust for his wife. It was a drag.
Be that as it may, we had a party to do. I knocked back another bourbon and smoked a cornsilk bomber with Carlo. He seemed to be turning into another Joey Moon.
“I sense your essential mockery of me,” he said. “And I’m picking up on Rikki’s low opinion of my intellect. Her attraction to me is merely physical. Nobody really likes me. I’m a court jester, a hired fool.”
“Oh come on, Carlo? Is Gaven spreading this teep shit like a plague?” I paused, studying the cornsilk’s clearly etched tendrils of smoke. I picked up an odd odor in the air. Something from Carlo. “Are you wearing cologne, qrude? That’s how far into the dark side you are?”
“It’s a probiotic skin culture transferred from kangaroos. It’s called Tailthumper. Women like it.”
“Sure they do. But anyway, if you’ve got some teep, can you, uh, tell me about Loulou Sabado?”
“She’s dangerous,” said Carlo. “She’s five years younger than us. Five years older than Joey. Worldly. I think she might be a teeper. If I even look at her, I feel like I’m going to explode. Like going into a carnival funhouse.” Carlo stared down at his hand, trying to control his careening thoughts. “This rat-bit finger, man, I can’t understand why nobody wants to help me. Rikki’s over there talking to Joey Moon. She’s got this weird, sick attraction to him. There’s something physically twitching inside my finger, Zad. A horrible parasite alive inside me.”
“You’re wasted, man. You’re on a head trip.”
“Hey, you two!” said Reba, grown very jolly. “My old beaux. I don’t usually have this much fun on a Thursday night. Eeny meeny miney moe, catch a qrudie by the toe.” She was moving her finger back and forth with the words, and she ended up pointing at me. “Aren’t you lonely sleeping in your store like a janitor, Zad?”
And now here came Gaven, walking with his arm around Jane’s waist.
“How can she stand letting him physically touch her?” said Carlo, blurting out exactly what was in my mind.
“Shall we dine en plein air?” said Gaven, coming on all smooth and baronial.
“You sound like Todd Trask,” I told him. “Guy who used to live here. Piss-elegant.”
“A good role model for me, no?” said Gaven. “Landed gentry. I’m upgrading my image. But do let’s eat.” Gaven turned loose of Jane and gestured toward the horn of plenty. “Sausages, shrimp, burgers, quail—whatever you feel like grilling. Do it yourself. Or ask Loulou.”
“But don’t ask Joey,” hollered Joey Moon, fifty feet away by the base of the tree with Rikki Shimano fluttering around him. Jo
ey was overly tuned in.
“If all of our qwet rat template providers experience psychiatric dislocations of this nature, it could pose a workflow problem,” said Gaven in a bloodless monotone. “Not to mention the public relations fallout regarding the market for qwet teep.”
“For the rats, we just use Joey’s personality over and over,” said Carlo, wrenching himself back into business mode. I could almost see the smoke coming out of his ears. “Use Joey’s personality for every single rat. By copying it across from Skungy. No need to deal with Joey or with any other human template again.”
“No more Joey,” echoed Gaven. “Put him into treatment, in a place where he’s safe.”
“And that way Zad gets a clear shot at Loulou,” said Carlo, beginning to enjoy himself again.
“Is that really what you’re thinking?” Jane asked me. “You’d go for a slutty woman like that?”
“That’s not your business anymore, is it?” I said. “Especially if you’re dating Gaven. And Loulou’s not slutty.”
“That’s what you think,” said Jane. “You’re so unaware, Zad. It’s pitiful.” She put on a blank, simpering expression. “La, la, la, I’m the unworldly artist.”
“Let’s scroll back,” interrupted Carlo. “Back to Skungy being, like, the standard meter for the qwet rat personalities. My bright idea.”
“I’ve got your platinum diamond meter stick right here!” screamed Joey. “Me!” He was pulling down his pants.
Smoothly Rikki backpedaled away from him.
Gaven was murmuring into his cupped hand. “Code red, Artie. Calm Joey down.”
Artie was as smooth as silk. He loped down from the driveway to spray some nod into Joey’s contorted face. Joey took a halting step, then collapsed to the ground, his body limp, his pants around his knees. Loulou said something sharp to Artie, pointing her finger. The guard shrugged, then fastened up the inert Joey’s trousers. Loulou looked deeply unhappy.
