SMOKING MIRROR BLUES_The Return of Tezcatlipoca

by Ernest Hogan

  There was nothing like being a passenger on a freeway. It was so much better than driving, having to watch the traffic and signs and the graffiti that somehow still managed to appear despite the latest in anti-graffiti technology. The crowded places around the freeways were the closest thing El Lay had to rivers, and all the things around the freeways were so wonderful: Signs of glowing plastic, shining bright, even by day, calling attention to wonderful places devoted to satisfying just about every desire that the human body or spirit could want. It was all so shiny and new, constantly being rebuilt, as if by some uniquely Californian magic. You could never know it all. You were always exploring something new.

  Home sweet home, Phoebe thought. Home sweet unknown.

  All her life she had listened to people, mostly hicks from far-off backwaters like Texas or Washington, saying that El Lay was decaying and SoCal was on the brink of an ultimate disaster. It always made her giggle. This superstition of the death of El Lay was like the superstition that somehow an earthquake was going to cause all of California – even stuck-up, xau-xau NoCal – to sink into the Pacific; Beto had once explained to her how that was impossible. And when the big earthquake finally hit, the ongoing rebuilding process had absorbed the damage in record time.

  The El Lay she had always known was the world's most luxurious disaster area. Fresh-off-the-plane refugees from the planet's real disaster areas always thought they were entering paradise. Deep in her heart, she know it would always be this way.

  If Smokey was an Aztec trickster god, then El Lay was his kind of town.

  And she was hoping that she was his kind of woman.

  Suddenly, she noticed that it was too quiet. The sound-proofing of the limo cut her off from the nurturing roar of the freeway traffic. Having always found peace and quiet to be vastly overrated, she needed a background soundtrack.

  "Hey Mr. Li," she said through the intercom. "Ya got any music?"

  Mario Li did some quick keyboard work.

  "Smoking Mirror Blues" filled the air, and overwhelmed Phoebe's nervous system.

  "That Smokey is really something," Mario Li intercommed.

  Phoebe smiled. The driver was finally showing some good taste.

  *

  "Dammit Phoebe," said Caldonia as she finally achieved a link between her infosystem and Tan Tien and Zobop's. "How could you do this to me now?"

  "Did you say something?" asked Zobop, who was keeping an eye on a monitor that had been rigged to show a comparative graph of the power usage of both the Tezcatlipoca and Earth Angel AI entities. Tezcatlipoca was leading for the moment, but the Earth Angel/One True God as catching up, fast.

  "Oh nothing." Caldonia quickly changed the subject. "I'm ready to access my goddess file."

  "Good," said Tan Tien, who was helping Xochitl get a truncated version of her god-simulating program together. "We're almost done here. Tell us Caldonia, do you have any suggestions as to what goddesses we should use for your plan?"

  Caldonia looked off into space, then licked her lips. "Well, I have my favorite goddesses . . . too bad we can't use them. What we really need are goddesses that will appeal to a xau-xau male hetero ego like Beto, or Smokey or whatever we're up against here."

  "This is so weird," said Ralph as he duped some of his virturealist programs from his Phoenix workstation, wishing he were back there, working out the tedious details of a new game.

  *

  Director Ho decided to oversee the interrogation of the Earth Angels himself. It was not just because he felt it was important as a police officer and a Christian that their terrorist plans be uncovered, but he had a morbid fascination for these people who took his religion and twisted it into something horrible. There was a deep, burning need in his soul to confront them, even if it would probably be extremely disturbing.

  Three screens on his office wall lit up. One of the Earth Angels was on each. The little girl in the pink communion dress who turned out to be in her twenties, the man in the suit like a anatomical chart, and the man who had an oddly featureless face under the monkey-demon mask, were all shown in closeup. None of them seemed to the least bit intimidated by being alone in cramped booths, facing lights, cameras, and microphones.

  They were scary.

  "So, Ho?" Interrogation Specialist Pepper Amateau, a serious grey-haired afro woman turned and said. "Should we start asking questions, or just keep up the staring match?"

  "Making them wait doesn't seem to have any effect on them," Ho said. "They don't even blink at regular intervals."

  "They must have had some anti-interrogation training," said Amateau, in her usual business-like tone.

  Ho kept staring at the screens. "They don't look quite human."

  "Should we ask them a question?" Amateau was carefully patient.

  "Oh," said Ho. "Yes." He picked up the microphone and turned it on. "What is your name?"

  The booths distorted Ho's voice into an electronic croak and sent it to each prisoner simultaneously.

  Simultaneously they replied, "No comment."

  "What were you doing in the old Bank of America Building?" Ho asked.

  They simultaneously replied, "No comment."

  Ho went on to his next question: "Are you now or have you ever been a member of the Earth Angels organization?"

  "No comment."

  Ho turned off his microphone and set it down. "It's as if they were all really in the same room."

  Amateau rolled her eyes. "They've been coached."

  "No," said Ho. "It's more like they're in some kind of communication."

  Amateau smirked. "Mental telepathy?"

  "Not quite." Ho looked serious. "The Earth Angels apparently communicate on a global basis. But nobody has been able to crack their network. And they never have any communication equipment on them when they are captured."

  "Oh yeah?" Amateau picked up the microphone, then turned it on. "Do you have any implanted communications devices in your body?"

  They "No comment"-ed again.

  "This is getting frustrating," said Ho, off-mike.

  Amateau turned off the microphone. "No, look at the readings from the lie-detection probes. Slight rises in heart and breathing rates. Their adrenal glands show stimulation. There's also some extraneous brain and nerve activity."

  "Are they hiding something?" asked Ho.

  "Could be."

  "But what?"

  "They're reacting to a question about implanted communications devices. Maybe they have them?"

  Ho shook his head. "We scanned them in processing. Came up with nothing. As usual with suspected Earth Angels."

  "Maybe they have something that our scanners can't detect?"

  "Some kind of sophisticated nanotechnology?"

  "Could be."

  "So how can we find out?"

  Amateau frowned for few seconds, then her face lit up with inspiration. "Maybe we can trick them." She turned the microphone back on. "Do you object to being scanned for nanotechnology?"

  There were three more simultaneous "No comments."

  Ho took the microphone and turned it off. "What are you doing? We don't have any such scanner! Nobody's been able to perfect one so far!"

  Amateau pulled the microphone away from him. "I know that, but they don't. Besides, look at the lie-detection readings."

  "They're going crazy."

  "They're worried about something."

  "So what now?"

  Amateau turned on the microphone. "Your lack of comment is being interpreted as permission to scan. We are proceeding with the scan."

  When he was sure the microphone was off, Ho said, "The readings are really berserk now."

  "We don't need any probes to tell that," said Amateau. "Just look at their expressions. The twitches. Yes, even some sweat. They're all worried about something."

  All at once:

  The woman said, "Lord, save me!"

  The man in the organ suit made the sign of the cross.

  The other man said
, "Allah, have mercy."

  Then they went into convulsions. Blisters popped up on along their scalplines. Weak strands of brown smoke came out of their ears. One by one, they collapsed out of camera range.

  Amateau said, "My God, what have I done?"

  Ho ran out of his office, to the nearest men's room, and threw up for a long time.

  *

  We have lost three agents to the Hollywood Police. Their souls are still in their bodies, but they can no longer function. Their places in Heaven are assured. Our communication nanotechnology's self-destruct function proved effective. We must now infiltrate the Hollywood and other police departments to see if they actually have effective nanotechnology detectors.

  The computer manifestation of the One True God is going along fine; however, it is taking more power, memory and raw data than we expected.

  We have also determined that another computerized god-manifestation is centered around the conapt of Alberto Orozco. A special tactical team is being dispatched to destroy it. The conapt is only guarded by three Los Olvidadoids. May God have mercy on their souls.

  *

  Chucho yawned, then looked out the window and sucked down a stick of Fun. "Sun's going down. Dead Daze is almost over. Except for Smokey, it's been pretty boring for us."

  "Hey," said Zen. "The concert will be on soon."

  "At least we have that to look forward to," said Chucho. "We got any more Fun?"

  "Plenty," said Lila.

  *

  Well, Aud Vid Fiz fans, how do you like the new, improved face of Eegah? Whooooooooo! Looking in the mirror, I'm still getting used to it. I didn't think I'd be telling Madam Styrsky to do more, and more, and more, until – well, you can see. Intricate, ain't it. Amazing what she can do with those teeny, little computer-guided lasers! Whoooooooo! I look different. My face seems new. And I feel great! Whoooooooooo! Almost a Fun high here!

  I feel ready for the Smokey Espejo satellite concert, and the brave, new word that's waiting for us out there, beyond the dying Dead Daze . . .

  20. DIVINE LUSTS

  In the beginning, God . . .

  No, I am God, this is the beginning. How could I have made a mistake?

  Now, I . . .

  *

  Yeah, I think I made the right decision here. Huntington Beach is perfect for shooting the Day Three sunset. It was worth the twenty-four pack of Fun sticks we bribed the guards with. Those colors on the sky and sea! Why didn't somebody think of purposely putting additives in pollutants to enhance the aesthetic qualities of smog decades ago? And don't just hold on the sun way out on the horizon like this was some corny old Hollywood thing; pan and pull back to show the beach and the cliffs, and the giant mutant sand fleas crawling over the bodies of those passed-out, partied-out surfers. Their colorful costumes are a nice touch, even if they are torn and vomit-spattered: Aztec, Mayan, Zulu, Samurai, and hey! even a few old-fashioned white surfers with long, bleached-blond hair!

  How nostalgic! I wonder why so few euro boys are into surfing these days?

  Anyway, I think we have enough for a good mondomentary on these Dead Daze. Too bad there wasn't any major rioting. Little bytes of random violence here and there, some salable footage, but no full blown citywide behavioral firestorm that would have been a commercial dynamo. I would have to pick the year after the big riots to come here.

  There's still some time before sundown and the official end, but things are calm. El Lay is tired, burned-out, hung-over and waiting to settle down and watch Smokey Espejo's satellite concert.

  Good ol' Smokey. He provided a lot of good action-packed highlights. Even some salable violence. Maybe something will happen because of his concert.

  What I would give to have my crew set up at his secret headquarters . . .

  *

  "Are we getting there?" Phoebe asked Mario Li.

  "We're close," he said. "Entering the Anaheim Hills. A few twists and turns and we'll be there."

  "Anaheim Hills! I used to go there to party back in my teens!"

  Mario Li frowned. "I wouldn't let my daughters anywhere near there."

  Pressing her nose against the porthole, Phoebe thrilled to the sight of the A-Hills: a landscape of dried brush and roads twisting up and down a maze of rolling hills, on which large would-be mansions were crowded together. Some of the mansions were glowing with eccentric paint jobs, some were covered with gleaming graffiti, some were obscured by overgrown vegetation, still others were burned-out hulks where ravens, hawks, and condors hunted rats.

  It was just the way she remembered it, only things had been rearranged the way they always were in SoCal after a few years. An old lover from the Midwest had once told her that California looked like one, big amusement park. That was exactly why Phoebe loved it so much. Life was one big, fast, scary ride, better than any virturealist fantasy.

  Suddenly, the staccato rattle of machine-gun fire cut through the limo sound-proofing.

  "What was that?" she asked.

  Mario Li shook his head. "Gunfire. Damn Anaheim Hills. Don't worry, the vehicle is armored."

  Phoebe bounced around, peeking out windows and portholes. Finally she saw a van crowned with dishes and antennae, scarred by a jagged line of bullet-holes, taking a corner too fast, and flipping over into a jungle-like front yard.

  *

  I don't believe it! Those bastards shot at us! We could have been killed! This is great! Is anybody hurt? Good. Did you keep the camera running? Good. Even after the van flipped? Good. It's still running now? And you're getting this? Good. This is great! This is going to be the mondomentary of these Dead Daze. We're really gonna wow 'em at the Vienna Video Festival!

  *

  "Uh-oh," Phoebe said, remembering one of the basic rules of survival in the A-Hills: When the shooting starts, run for cover.

  Suddenly the limo stopped.

  It was a roadblock. Armed Olvidadoid guards surrounded the limo. One came up to the driver's window.

  Mario Li cracked the window, put his foot lightly on the gas pedal, and let his hand hover over the keyboard. "How can I help you?"

  "This area is off limits to all but authorized personnel," said the guard.

  "We're authorized," said Mario Li.

  "How?"

  "I'm bringing an important person to Smokey."

  The guard peeked into limo, saw Phoebe, who smiled, waved and winked. Shaking his head, the guard asked into his phone, "Is Smokey expecting an official visitor, female?"

  Suddenly, Smokey's face appeared in the guard's and Phoebe's phones, and the limo's headup windshield display.

  "Phoebe!" he said.

  "Smokey!" she said.

  "Are these people authorized personnel?" asked the guard.

  "Yes," said Smokey, "they are."

  "I'm letting them in then." The guard rolled his eyes, and gestured for his associates to open the roadblock.

  Phoebe made a cooing sound and clapped her hands.

  Mario Li drove past the road block.

  *

  Deep in his stupor, Beto sensed the presence of Phoebe. He wanted to react in disgust, but he couldn't. His mind didn't seem to be connected to anything. His neurons buzzed with electricity, but nothing clicked on. The lights were all out. Nobody was home. He sure wasn't. But where was he? Was he anywhere?

  Why did he keep getting the impression of Tezcatlipoca chewing away at the hypothetical thing people wanted to call his soul?

  Beto was getting weaker.

  Couldn't sense anything.

  Now.

  *

  Smokey stood on the observation deck on top of the dirty, white mansion. He sucked a stuck of Fun, felt all impressions of Beto fade away, and felt good. The sun was down, Dead Daze was officially over, his satellite concert was to begin soon. It was the beginning of a new age, the age of Smokey Espejo and the triumphant return of Tezcatlipoca.

  He looked out into the cool SoCal night, and saw all the lights blazing, wrapped around the rolling hills
, flowing like rivers of molten lava along the freeways, under a starless sky. It was as if the sky had fallen, spilling the stars all over the earth. As if he, by his divine effort as a trickster, had turned the universe upside-down.

  It pleased him to think of having such power.

  Some machine-gun fire interrupted the steady roar of the nearby freeway. His guards were fighting media teams that were seeking him out here in his new headquarters. He'd have to move everything again soon. A trickster can't stay in one place for too long. He has to keep moving, make the entire planet his.

  Could he even make the entire universe his?

  "Smokey?" Sharkey the guard leaned out of the door, leading with her Arkoff Rapid-Fire Automatic.

  "Yes," he looked her over. She was attractive in a sadomasochistic way. He hadn't had sex in a couple of hours, and Fun was warming up all his desires.

  Sharkey got a jealous look that drove him crazy and said, "That groupie you've been asking about. We finally got her. She's here."

  "Phoebe?" Smokey was delighted at how repelled Beto would be at her being so near.

  "Yes," Phoebe said, barging past the little guard, into Smokey's arms. "Oh Smokey, you're so wonderful, and I love you so much!" She kissed him like a truck running over a stray cat.

  He kissed back like he was biting into the fresh, juicy, still-beating heart of a human sacrifice.

  Sharkey frowned, sighed, went in the door and closed it behind her.

  *

  "I hope this works," said Ralph.

  "I hope to God it works," said Xochitl.

  "We don't have time to do anything else," said Zobop.

  "We have to have faith," said Tan Tien.

  "If not, then we just go over to Smokey and tear his fucking head off," said Caldonia.

  *

  Soon Phoebe was fucking Smokey under the purple-grey night sky.

  It wasn't at all like fucking Beto. Smokey made that cock harder and bigger. He thrust harder, faster, and with far more passion. He grabbed so hard she knew there would be bruises. And he bit wherever he could get his teeth into her, broke the skin in a few places.

  He was possessing her body, in a way.