by Rudy Rucker
“The best goddamn colt I ever owned! Killed by that giant fucking spider!” Spotting me, Todd grew apoplectic. “I want you off my farm, you son of a bitch. I never want to see you again.”
Todd was drunk and dangerous. By the time he’d fetched his shotgun from the gun rack in his front hall, Jane and I were back at my grown home.
“Get in my car,” Jane urged. “Never mind Carlo and Reba. They’re still goofing.”
I could hear the gun blasting again and again as Todd wiped out Zix. The music had fallen silent, the guests were mewling in dismay.
“Come back down here, Zad,” shouted Todd. No way.
“Why don’t we go someplace and have sex,” suggested Jane.
“I don’t like to leave my paintings behind,” I said, getting into her car. “Todd might do something to them.”
“Spoken like an artist,” giggled Jane as we drove off. “Todd won’t hurt the paintings. He’s being a drama king and he knows it. This big scene makes your art worth even more.”
* * *
3: Loofy Picnic
So I had a seven-year run in the art world. Along the way I married Jane. We opened my Live Art shop, and Jane started her own public relations agency: Jane Says. I was hot for awhile and then my star dimmed. By the time this the whole qwet thing started, I hadn’t sold a painting for two years—nor had I made any new ones.
After my conversation with Carlo in my shop, I got into my slugfoot Lincoln and headed for Gaven Graber’s farm, leaving my current roadspider at home. I was hoping to get a deal to market a whole line of Gaven’s experimental nurbs. I had the car’s roof down and my qwet rat Skungy was perched on the dash, enjoying himself, now and then dispensing some bullshit Joey Moon advice. Route directions from a Southern hipster rat.
The Lincoln was a dream to drive. With her slimy foot, she rocked and rolled like a luxor boat. I followed the old river road along the Ohio, heading towards the horsey end of town. Even if the ocean levels had risen by thirty feet, this far inland, the river levels were the same.
These days, much of the asphalt and concrete was gone from our roads, replaced by tight, impermeable nurb grass. This might have been a problem for a car with wheels, but not for my slugfoot.
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 and 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 jackshit 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 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 death of the thoroughbred colt had launched my career. Todd had managed to buy himself two new thoroughbred colts by reselling one of my Cold Day in Hell pieces. But now I was little more than a shopkeeper.
Halfway up Graber’s driveway, I spotted the guests down by that same pond where we’d picnicked when I was a boy. A rangy security guard waved me to a stop. He looked familiar, and I recalled that he’d been on a basketball team my school had played.
“I’m Zad,” I told him. “Zad Plant.”
“Right,” said the guard. “I’m Artie. Hell of a vehicle you got here. Just drive her on down across the field.”
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 batwings and a slender beak. A graceful, pale green roadspider was wandering around as well. The September sunset was coloring the sky. Very idyllic.
It had been a warm day, and three calf-sized nurb bullfrogs were croaking out 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. I noticed a burrow in the bank of the pond beside the cattails—I had no idea what lived inside.
Gaven was making some amazing shit.
He was standing next to my wife Jane, intently chatting her up. Like all the other guys my age, he’d always admired Jane. She was a star. Meanwhile Reba Ranchtree was talking with Carlo and with a self-possessed California Japanese woman I hadn’t seen before—I figured she was the Junko Shimano whom Carlo had been fantasizing about.
What had Carlo said—volcanic geek-girl sex? Didn’t seem likely. Junko looked more like the type for bird-watching at dawn, a full day of engineering and an evening singing twentieth-century musicals with a chorus group.
Off to the side, oh God, it was Joey Moon, tending a fire and arranging some food that had spilled from the mouth of a nurb horn of plenty. I hadn’t seen Joey for several months, and I was sorry to see him sunk so low. Pale and twitchy. Working on Gaven Graber’s farm. Letting them copy his personality onto Skungy the rat. It struck me that Joey and his wife were probably living in that same grown home where I’d started out. Bel.
I didn’t much want to talk to Joey. He’d just start running one of his wheedling, superior-sounding cons on me. Talking down to me like I was a fuddydud, a mere gallery owner, and no kind of artist at all. Not to mention the fact that, according to Carlo, the quantum wetware treatment had messed up Joey’s head.
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 my wife 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 —”
“Just as well we never had that baby,” interrupted Jane, staving me off. “Makes it easier to split up for good. 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 sell the vat online. I want to put a little garden on my balcony.”
“Our balcony,” I slipped in.
“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 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 each other?”
“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 in your alley. The rain won’t hurt it. You can feed it, it’ll grow.”
“Fine. And when the vat gets full enough, I’ll stick my head into it and suffocate.”
“A perfect exit,” said Jane. “Your nurb-paint pictures will get a nice bump in the market.”
I liked how gracefully she’d sidestepped my bid for pity. It was nice to be talking
to Jane, our conversations were like a graceful dance. “Speaking of slimy nurbs,” I said, “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. Her hair had a maroon tint these days, and it was permed into intricate curls.
“Sluggo needs his supper,” I said, popping open my old car’s bank-vault of 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 he 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 so qrude!” 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 for Jane to hand me off?
“So you like the qwet rat,” said Gaven. He was six inches shorter than me, but he wasn’t flabby anymore. He looked taut and toned. Some kind of nurb biohack, no doubt. Injectable fitness like Carlo was using. Gaven wore dark cotton pants and a patterned silk shirt. His wristphone was tweaked to resemble an old-school gold watch with a crocodile band. And he wore a geeky black holster with some kind of nerdly instrument in it. In no way did his small stature make him any the less confident.
“Carlo tells me you’re going to be repping us in your gallery,” he continued. “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 too? 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 of a natural disaster. Everything flat and shiny along River Road. Weird junk floating. 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. I’m a client of the Jane Says agency.”
“You’re working with Gaven?” I asked Jane, surprised. “I hadn’t heard.”
“Working like a Trojan,” said Jane in a fake perky tone, kind of breathless. “Dumb expression. Never mind. 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.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Carlo hinted that I might be test-marketing a whole series of things. Like qwet teep for people? Right, Gaven?”
“One step at a time,” said Gaven. “But, yes, the qwet rats are only a start. In a month or two—well, I don’t want to rush into things. Non-disclosure!”
Jane laughed, clearly in the know. It bugged me to think of her and Gaven having cozy meetings. It would be just like that grotty little geek to try and get something going with my wife. His day in the sun at last.
“I like the cute rat 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 Skungy in a genial tone. “I aim to pee.”
“That rat bit me today,” put in Carlo.
“I was watching through my gnat cams,” 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 using the bourbon to damp all that down.”
“Soldier on,” said Gaven, not seeming very worried.
“I could treat the bite with something,” said the engineer woman—Junko Shimano. “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, feeling annoyed on Carlo’s behalf. “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 rat-bit hand into his pocket. “Don’t blow our deal, Zad. I can take care of myself.”
“I do admire you two guys, yes,” 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, Junko?”
“Not yet,” she said, stepping forward. She had an odd coiffure, with her dark hair up in two flat buns—a little like lacquered mouse-ears. “I’m a fan of your paintings. All the Wet E majors at Stanford like you. Gnarladelic! This man knows that nurbs are beautiful!”
“Thanks,” I told Junko, shaking her cool, dry hand. “Carlo was praising you to me, too.”
“We all need flattery,” said Junko. “Pile it on. I’m very insecure. The bright girl with no social skills. Carlo has scheduled me to be his next conquest—in his dreams.” She studied him with a certain fondness. Like the way you might look at a pet animal. “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 do indeed want to know where you found that outfit,” said Junko. “I’d like to take one of those back to California.”
“I’ll give you mine,” said Reba. “We’re about the same size. And it’s not something I’d wear over and over.”
“I wouldn’t wear it once,” said Jane, teasing Reba.
“Those beads,” asked Junko. “Are they nurbs?” And then the women got into a conversation about that.
“How’s Joey Moon holding up?” I asked Gaven, lowering my tone.
“He’s stuck in an overly contemplative mental state,” said Gaven, glancing over at Joey, who wasn’t doing much of anything right now. “He’s orbiting around a psychic fixed point. But Junko and I feel that people ought to be able to avoid that. We hope to develop a very broad user base for qwet teep.” Gaven paused, looking me over, assessing me. “It’s an increasingly fluid situation. In the end, qwet might be—”
“Joey Moon!” squealed Skungy on my shoulder, interrupting us. The rat wasn’t paying attention to our conversations, and he’d only now noticed Joey standing over there. He raised his little voice and chirped louder. “Joey Moon!”
Joey didn’t seem to hear. He was staring up into the oak tree as if lost in thought. Seized by enthusiasm, Skungy leapt 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—Joe Moon’s wife—remonstrated gently with her husband.
Wanting to learn more, I went over and asked the woman for a bourbon and water. “I’m going to be marketing those rats,” I said. “I’m Zad Plant?”
“I’m Loulou Sass,” she said. I hadn’t known her name. She had a low, purring voice. “And that’s Joey Moon.” She frowned at me. “But you know all about us. Thanks to the rat.”
“I only just now got the rat,” I said, wanting to placate her. “And I certainly don’t plan to—”
“You know a good lawyer, Zad?” put in Joey Moon, a little unsteady on his feet. He seemed resentful and pissed off. And he stank like a goat. “Your friend Graber,
his experiments messed me up, and they’ve declared me legally incompetent. It’s like a hall of mirrors in my head. With voice. Not voices, exactly. Nudges and winks. And I can vibe 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 rank smell was invading my nose, and I felt like it was sensitizing me to his tangled, self-referential thoughts.
“No you don’t,” said Loulou, fed up. “Sit down and stop bothering people.”
Before slinking off, Joey addressed me again. “Don’t you ever forget that I’m an artist too, Zad. Even though you wouldn’t show me in your gallery. I’m not a hot shot who gets everything handed to him on a silver platter. But I’m better than you. I’m the next wave.”
“Sure, man. You’ve had it hard.” Anything to calm him down.
Joey went and sat down at the base of the oak tree, glaring at us and making odd little gestures meant to show that he sensed our inner thoughts. As if I was in some weird, flickering teep connection with him. For sure he was accurate about the feelings he seemed to be reading from me. My fear, repulsion, and guilt towards him—and my lust for his wife. Being around Joey 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. All at once he seemed to be turning as paranoid as Joey Moon.
“I’m wise to your hidden mockery,” said Carlo. “And I’m picking up on Junko’s low opinion of my intellect. 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 salesman mode you are?”
“It’s a probiotic nurb skin culture transferred from kangaroos. It’s called Tailthumper. Women like it.”
