SMOKING MIRROR BLUES_The Return of Tezcatlipoca

by Ernest Hogan

  "Why are you looking at your phone?" asked the chubby little afro groupie that was sitting on his lap. She was wearing mostly long, fat, metallic green braids.

  "You do that a lot," said Lobo, who was busy with a tall blonde groupie.

  "I feel strange," Smokey said. "Dizzy. I need some Fun. Lobo, do you have any?"

  Lobo frowned. "Never touch the stuff myself. It fogs up the musicianship."

  Tommy Pozo, the asio/latio bass player, stuck his head out from under a skinny asio groupie and said, "Don't worry, Smokey-boy, I always have Fun on me. I'm the Fun Man! It helps me play better." He handed Smokey a Fun stick. "Here you go. Glad to know you're not a little old lady about drugs."

  Smokey lit and sucked down the stick.

  "Me too," said the groupies and the rest of the band.

  Soon Smokey felt a lot better, and everyone in the limo except Lobo was flying on Fun.

  *

  In the mediasphere, Tezcatlipoca made a note that Fun was essential to keeping control of Beto's body. He made another note to schedule regular calls to remind Smokey to have his Fun.

  10. GETTING OLVIDADOID

  Uh-oh, El Lay, looks like things are getting nostril-searing xau-xau across this madeover continent in Washington D.C. as these Daze go on. Things don't look so good for El Presidente Monsieur Jones. First an investigative reporter gets beat up, and now, this man of the people who swore to make the White House look more like the new, improved recombocultural face of these United States of America, the first Americano of African descent to be elected to that most high office, ain't saying nothing about this situation, not even talking calls. Nobody – not even his most important advisors – know where he is!

  What is this, El Lay? The gov giving it to us again on Dead Daze? First we gotta party with the National Guard, and now the main man won't even come out and lay things out pretty when we got some honest questions to ask about, hey, what's going on here?

  It's enough to ruin your Dead Daze – that is, if you were somekinda xau-xau loser who didn't have enough sumato safely stored in his system to stay tuned to Soundsite Station; we'll let you know what's flowing through the streets, and give you videos of all the music you need to forget that there is even such a thing as a president.

  And speaking of someone that is far from being anything like a president, that man of Dead Daze, who has often been quoted as saying that he is a god, Smokey Espejo has been stirring things up on these self-same streets – so much so that the National Guard keeps issuing warnings for you, the public, to stay away from the ecstatic crowds that form around this beautiful boy whenever he shows up. We've heard it, and had it confirmed by several of our most reliable sources, that sensational Smokey has linked up with a group of street musicians known as Los Tricksters; and at this very nanosecond, they're limoing their way along the San Berdoo to a secret recording studio in the warehouse district of El Monte to create a nanodisc release that will be available before the end of these amazing Dead Daze! And the rumor factory has churned out some delicious bytes about a world-wide satellite concert!

  Here's a mondobyte of a jam Smokey and Los Tricksters did within the hour near an offramp of the fantabulous San Berdoo in Monterey Park! They were doing some ultrasumato stuff there, as you will soon see, even when the National Guard troops started beating on the crowd, their batons were swinging to this brave new beat!

  *

  Phoebe was in the deep, dark sleep that Fun gave you when it burned you out; the body shuts down, and your mind collapses in on itself . . . for hours . . . and hours . . .

  She first felt cozy and comfortable. She may have been in a bed, but then with Fun sleep the sensory apparatus and the body seemed light-years apart. She could have been in a garbage-choked back alley or a gutter overflowing with raw sewage, bones fractured and internal organs exploded from an attack by other Fun users who might be her friends and/or loved ones, but who were so far out of themselves with Fun that they couldn't see what they were doing, or to whom, and didn't give anybody's god's damn – and Phoebe wouldn't be able to blame them for long, or at least not until she got another stick of Fun to suck, because it would just be so xau-xau to not forgive somebody for something they did while under the influence of Fun, because after all, Fun is Fun. Fun should always be spelled with a capital F. And a lot of the Fun of Fun – with or without drugs – is the possibility of danger, to keep life from being so safe and boring.

  And years later, slightly outside spacetime as mere human beings know it, as the body does its functioning, and the Fun wears off, slowly . . . oh, so gloriously slowly . . . you begin to dream. These are soft, weak dreams, the off-line activities of a brain burned down to something primordial, amino acids lusting to form deoxyribonucleic acid, mud struggling to think.

  Strange dreams that the deadened mind had so much trouble sinking its flaccid, tendril-like fangs into . . . they just slip away . . . random images . . . random meaning . . . sort of . . . like . . . chingow . . . trying to take off the magnificent metal Medusa mask, and not being able to find it . . . where did it go? . . . didn't Smokey throw it away? . . . how could he do that if he loved her? . . . chingow . . . that was more like something that Beto would do . . . fingers feel, but she can also see without the help of a mirror that the Medusa mask has somehow melted into her face, and recombozoid reptile/human flesh is growing over it . . . how horrible . . . chingow . . . now she would be ugly . . . forever and ever and . . . chingow . . . wait . . . no . . . look at her . . . chingow . . . she's beautiful . . . a gorgeous Gorgon . . . chingow . . . so beautiful that she can turn people into stone . . . if they look at her . . . or is it if she looks at them? . . . it's so hard to keep things . . . chingow . . .

  *

  Lobo Baker's eyes crossed. For a second Smokey looked like an Aztec god carved out of coarse, solidified lava. It had been over twenty-four hours since he had last slept, and he was the only person in the limo who wasn't soaring out of their skull on Fun.

  Out of the one-way, smoked porthole, he could see the suburban sprawl-jungle that was constantly devouring and renewing itself around the freeway, always being rebuilt before the smog could eat far into the surface of the latest multicolor neo-art nouveau anti-graffiti pantjobs. Signs that even glowed bright in the muddy afternoon El Lay sun announced drive-thru goods and services for the body, mind and soul: temples, churches, mosques, praystations, and other establishments offering spiritual aid in the names of more religions than had even existed in the last millennium. Malls and stop&robs of all kinds beckoned. Fuel stations offered ancient petrochemical, as well as newer hydrogen-based food for the vehicle. El Lay beckoned, offered all you could possibly need.

  All it asked was that you give yourself – totally.

  Smokey was also looking out the porthole, liking what he saw. He looked as if he were taking mental notes.

  Lobo shook his head and tried to hide the fact that a subzero chill was freezing his spine.

  He had always been the practical one of Los Tricksters, the leader; hell, he not only wrote the songs and composed the music, but managed the business end of things – important things, like remembering the when and where of appointments. Things were getting out of hand – that near-riot situation back in Monterey Park had him scared, they all could have been hurt, killed, or arrested. Everybody else – including Smokey – was on the ragged edge of going berserk.

  Tommy Pozo, wild-eyed as ever, sucked down another stick of Fun and said, "Chingow! I don't believe it! It was so beautiful! We had that crowd moving to our music – like they were the instruments we were playing. They danced to our tune. We could have made them fuck right there on the asphalt if we had tried. Did you see the way they fought back on the NGs when they attacked!? I tell you, Lobo, if you hadn't xau-xau'd out there, we could have really shown people who's in charge in this town!"

  "It was about to become a riot," said Lobo, blinking his red eyes. "People were hurt, somebody could have been killed."

/>   Smokey smiled. "Sacrifices will have to be made."

  "Yeah," said Tommy. "No pain; no gain."

  "No brain; no gain," said Lobo, fishing a Niteryder transdermal caffeine patch out of his pocket, tearing open the packet, and sticking the patch on his carotid artery. He smiled as it took effect.

  "Ya gotta give up those xau-xau kiddie drugs, Lobo," Tommy said.

  "Yeah," said Kenny Perez, the tiny, wiry drummer. "Ya gotta get into Fun. It's where the real music comes from. Chemical consciousness is what it's all about – I mean, consciousness is chemical, you know."

  Tommy pulled a Fun stick out of a pouch attached to his belt. "Here you go, Lobo. Find out what fun really is." He waved it in front of Lobo's blood-shot eyes – eyes that were becoming less tired, but still looked worn down.

  "I keep telling you," Lobo said, looking past the stick at Tommy's eyes, which were quivering slightly, "I don't need it."

  Suddenly, Smokey brought his phone to his ear.

  *

  Tezcatlipoca informed Smokey that even though the Fun in his bloodstream hadn't quite been metabolized yet, it wouldn't hurt to do another stick now, to keep Beto from even beginning to stir again.

  *

  "There you go again," said Ella Juarez, the voluptuous latio keyboardist, who since they had dumped the groupies in Monterey Park – including the faux surfer boy that she was toying with – was focusing her flirtation on Smokey, "what's with you and your phone? You getting a lot of calls or something? I've never even heard it ring . . ." She used it all as an excuse to worm her way closer to him. Soon she had him pinned down with a hip and a breast.

  Smokey sucked down the Fun stick, then said into his wrist, "There's got to be a way to make this faster, more direct."

  *

  Tezcatlipoca informed Smokey that he was scanning, and looking into a few things.

  *

  "We almost did it back there," Tommy said. "Like my dreams come true, I pick up my bass, go boom-boom-boom, and all hell breaks loose all over the planet!"

  "I want to do more than just make noise," said Lobo.

  "Music is nothing but noise," said Tommy.

  Ella put a few bold fingertips to Smokey's cheek. "If your music made all hell break loose, you could deal with it, couldn't you, Smokey?" Her fingertips found their way to the corner of his mouth.

  "Handling all the hells breaking loose is what I do best," Smokey said, "I am Tezcatlipoca."

  "I thought you were Smokey Espejo," said Lobo.

  "Tezcatlipoca means Smokey Espejo," said Smokey.

  "I think you're full of shit," said Lobo.

  Tommy, Kenny, and Ella pulled back a bit. Smokey and Lobo were looking at each other, ready to fight.

  "I am a god," said Smokey, with a demonic smile.

  "Bullshit," said Lobo. "I've met guys like you before. Charisma goes a long way, but what can you really do besides flim-flam people and do freeform jamming on that drum? What do you really know about music? Can you actually compose songs? Do you really intend to take over my band, or are you just going to strut around and take credit for what I do?"

  Smokey's face twitched. "I could kill you easily," he said, "but that wouldn't prove my point. I can do what I set out to do, I can compose songs that will cause all the hells to break loose, I can make 'your' band more than it even could be with just your meager, human talents."

  "Can you prove that?" asked Lobo.

  The limo came to a halt. The driver's voice came over the intercom, "We're here."

  "Yes," Smokey said, getting up with as much confidence as he could without hitting his head on the ceiling. "Let's get to work."

  *

  By the time Xochitl had finished the tiger penis soup, she had told Caldonia everything. Caldonia was deeply disturbed.

  "These soup is delicious," Xochitl told the waitress. "It is really made out of tiger penises?"

  "Of course," the waitress said, "and don't you go developing too much of a taste for penises," and she blew Xochitl a kiss.

  Xochitl looked around, then turned to Caldonia, "Is this a lesbian place?"

  Caldonia said, "Why, yes."

  Xochitl looked Caldonia over, then asked, "Are you a lesbian?"

  "Yes." Caldonia rolled her eyes. "Is that a problem?"

  "Oh, no," Xochitl said, "Beto told me about places like this. We have even some few in Mexico City. It's just that I'm never been in one. I'm straight, you see."

  "Yes," said Caldonia, with smirk, "I could tell."

  "How?"

  "Honey, you just ooze a sort of Mexican nerd girl heterosexuality."

  Xochitl took it as a compliment. "Why . . . thank you."

  "You ever rode passenger on a scooter before?"

  "Why yes. A boyfriend I had in college ride one. I would ride with him all the time."

  "Yup. I could tell. You knew how to hang on, but like a straight girl, you did your best not to hump me with your tits."

  Xochitl blushed.

  Caldonia grinned like a happy she-devil.

  "What do we do now?" Xochitl asked.

  Caldonia leered, and took Xochitl's hand. "We go to my place."

  Xochitl just sat there with her eyes and mouth wide open.

  "Relax honey," Caldonia said, patting Xochitl's hand. "You aren't my type. We need access to an infosystem, and I have a state-of-the-art workstation at home."

  *

  Ralph was nervous when Zobop ushered him into the conapt/office; but once he had settled into the plush guest couch and was introduced to Tan Tien, he felt much better. Until then he hadn't been sure whether Zobop was going to hit him over the head or use that stun ring on him.

  Tan Tien was fantastic. She was barefoot, and wearing a short kimono and loose jeans – her tiny feet were gorgeous. Her overpowering feminine presence bowled him over instantly. She was so small and delicate, yet strong and powerful; she could be lover, mother, sister, daughter as the moment demanded. He immediately wanted to do whatever she asked.

  When she said, "Oh, let me look at those poor knees," Ralph went belly-up. It hurt as she wiped them clean with a Laotian herb-treated cloth, but he choked back any protest. When she sprayed it with a custom-mixed healing aerosol form the Downtown Herbal Market, it felt cooler and better than he knew it should have.

  He didn't care. It was the best he had felt since arriving in Los Angeles.

  Zobop emerged from behind a beaded curtain. He was no longer looking like a high-profile hit man; the black turban, trenchcoat, and the high-tech sunglasses were gone. He was wearing a colorful dashiki and zoot pants. His uncovered eyes were friendly, which took the menacing edge off his face. He was holding a steaming cup that he handed to Ralph.

  "Here you go, sir," Zobop said, "have some maté."

  The drink was a creamy tea. Not bad.

  "Is this an Asian or African drink?" Ralph asked.

  Tan Tien gave a smile that was almost a laugh, but was very, very polite. "Neither. Maté is from South America."

  "Oh yeah," Ralph said, then took another sip. "I've heard of it. It's Argentine. There's a large Argentine community in Phoenix these days."

  "I've heard," Zobop said, as he checked some connections on the infosystem, "that there's a large Brazilian community there, too. Carnival there is supposed to be developing into something interesting."

  The way he said interesting made Ralph nervous. "Yes. I may take my wife and daughter next year."

  "So, you are a family man," Tan Tien said, leaning toward him. "How old is your daughter?"

  "Ten." Ralph was comfortable, but for a few seconds he felt like he was being interrogated. Then he took another sip of maté, and Tan Tien smiled again, and everything seemed all right.

  "And what brings a decent family man like you to Los Angeles without your wife or daughter on Dead Daze?" Zobop asked, with a hint of accusation in his voice.

  "Oh, believe me," said Ralph. "I'd really rather be back in Phoenix with them. I'm here on business."
/>
  "I thought you were a virturealist game designer," said Zobop, touching a device that purred on, and may have been a recorder.

  "I am." Ralph tensed up a little. "Something happened to my partner who lives here in El Lay."

  "Does your partner live near here?" asked Tan Tien, ever so sweetly.

  "Yes." Ralph couldn't help but answer. "I was running from his conapt when I fell down."

  "Why were you running?" asked Zobop. "Were you in danger?"

  "I'll say." Ralph was getting an irresistible urge to tell of his adventure. "My partner wasn't there, but the conapt was full of gangsters."

  "How interesting," Tan Tien said with a gleam in her eyes that made Ralph want to tell everything.

  And Zobop made sure the infosystem got it all down.

  *

  The male subjects entered the office/conapt building that used to be a Bank of America on Hollywood and Vine. They stayed there a long time. May God have mercy on their souls.

  *

  Tezcatlipoca found tapping into and monitoring Tan Tien and Zobop's infosystem easy. It was smart, but not as smart as he was. He could access the power and information he needed at will. And as for blocking them from detecting his monitoring – it was simple! They had never realized they would have to deal with anything like him; their infosystem had no way handling his invasion.

  Tan Tien and Zobop's interrogation of Ralph was piped directly into Tezcatlipoca's consciousness, then sent via phone to Smokey's brain.

  All Smokey had to do was glance at his wrist while practicing with Los Tricksters, but that was still slow and awkward. Tezcatlipoca kept scanning for a better method, a faster system. The legitimate nets were of no help, but then the illegal or "underground" nets offered possibilities. They had all kinds of information about how to gain access to things.

  Things like cerebral implants.

  11. SCAN AND BE SCANNED

  Don't believe what "they" say. You know who "they" are: the corporations, the governments, the religions, your parents. They all tell us that cerebral implants are impossible, that right here in the now there ain't no way you can safely, directly wire your brain to a computer. Well, don't believe it kids.