TableofContents

by Low Bo

  Bardog opens its eye. Good, Jason always lasts a long time, so full of flavor. But the lot isn't done. Bardog moves on.

  Bottle glass! Matecca's bottle flavored with lip-gloss and Tri-Buzz Beer. Synthetic hops clouds the taste, but man oh man, Matecca's mad. Bardog settles down with a mawful of shards.

  Matecca, all glow-in-the-dark garters, leather boots and HyperCalc mind. Profits and Overheads, beer orders and put off paying the band till Tuesday.

  "-of course you come first," Matecca tried her most gracious smile. "Business is just a little off, you know? The Port Authority's gotten tight-assed again."

  "What's that to me?" Mr. Gambo in his three piece frowned down at her. "I don't get mine; you don't get yours."

  "But you'll get it, sir. And I'm not making a dime." Matecca stepped back against the Caddy's hot hood. "I just gotta pay the distributors first. No beer, no profits for anyone."

  Gambo reached out and stroked her cheek with a white-gloved finger. His breath smelled spicy from off-world cuisine.

  Matecca tried to look past him at the white light rectangle of the club's back door. She concentrated on the Fendercaster's wall, the back beat blues as his hand strayed lower.

  "Let's go for a ride." Gambo stroked her hip.

  "Business is good tonight." She pulled away. "I need to be here watching the till."

  "Then have my money by the weekend." Gambo shoved past. He turned back to her, haloed in the light from the doorway. Could have been a laugh that came out of him, or a sob.

  "Hey!" Matecca caught herself against the caddy. But the stark lines of his face, eyes more anguished than angry. Framed against the doorway he looked like a lost child. The image filled her mind; she could have painted him once, but that was long ago, another, better life. The beer slipped through her fingers-

  Bardog blinks and sits up. Lotta flavor in that one, yes indeed. More than Matecca's usual. Bardog rolls to its feet and swivels its head. Back to the lot. Plastic cup-not many of these high-priced drinks.

  It flops down and slurps the cup into its maw. A zesty ammonia tang rolls over its tongues, salt, and olive oil. A Talto Stinger, so the drinker must be Glib.

  Taltos don't come here much, not Haightport. Glib who looks like a giant jelly condom in a wide-lapelled suit, skinny little tentacles that dangled too far past the sleeves. Ever try to play a Fender without fingers?

  Glib, lurking behind the audience, sometimes with a rental biomed just in case. Hee-Haw Glib!

  "-Suzy Cream Cheese must rise again!" Glib stood, pseudopods wide upon the stage. The chord rang out, thrilled and frilled with feedback.

  "God damn it!" Jason bellowed, stalking past an amplifier. "Get your shit slime off my ax."

  "I was just..."

  "Hee-Haw!" Dirtman, the bass player, muttered behind Jason.

  "Job thief!" Their drummer Freddie, short, muscled to the max added.

  "First I must tell you..." Glib couldn't bring itself to use the Fendercaster as a shield and held the instrument out. Jason snatched it and passed it back to Freddie.

  They blamed Glib for all Taltos: for the biom workers that made the companies rich without employees. For the Alliance War. Theirs was such a simplistic culture. Plastic People, the Eternal Frank would have called them; oh, what suffering He must have borne.

  "I have no... titties to share but will buy beer." Glib offered a gold label bottle never found this side of the port. The other tentacle reached for its own drink.

  "Share this!" Jason's many fingers closed into a hard knot that swept forward, growing bigger in Glib's oculars until it filled all space. Reality rolled and tumbled Glib out into the parking lot.

  Gravel cut into its tentacles when it tried to stand. Another suit ruined, but worth the price. It, meaning Glib, meaning Glibaster Yol Tomago, had mastered the C major chord!

  For one brief infinity, the notes had wailed, soared, and caressed the ears of the universe. All hail The Eternal Frank Zappa! By the Holy Apocrypha of Joe's Garage -You only get one chance!

  Glib gazed at the red-lit bar. What a dump. Poor management, it decided. No wonder humans lost the war. Of course, if Crechepriest Bobbibrown had its way this place would change. Glib crumpled the cup, and tossed-

  Bardog sits up and whines. Glib always tastes so different, so deliciously needy, but in the end always the same old mindache.

  Parking lot still dirty but Bardog scratches its ear with a hindped. Nothing good to eat out here. Lotsa time before nightblack. It ambles towards the back door. Might be something better inside. Toilets hold a lot of flavor.

  It pads up the back concrete steps, stops to suck up a grease glob and think about the frustrations of life as a cook, then starts for the tiny biom entrance.

  "Hold it right there, Mister." Matecca smiles and waggles a finger before Bardog's eye. "You aren't done out here yet. Go finish the curbs. Watch for traffic though. I can't afford another trip to Bernie's Surplus. Even a half price broken down biom like you strains the budget." She shakes her head. "Could have paid Gambo off it hadn't been for you."

  Bardog sighs, then tries one of the canine behaviors Bernie of the Tinkering Hands had inserted, slumping down on its torso.

  "The lot first, then toilets." Matecca smiles, bending to ruffle its head.

  Bardog licks her wrist. Pure flavor! Yet the image it brings is unfamiliar. Why would Matecca want to paint Gambo's picture? What flavor were oil paints?

  * * *

  Happiness is a dirty parking lot on a plumeless sun-bright morning. Bardog scuttles over to the curb, lowers its snout, and sniffs the metal cartridges. Teargas, not much flavor. Port police never very tasty, just a sour meanness that puckers Bardog's maw.

  Over by the front steps, it finds better pickings. A glove, oh so yummy. Bardog crouches and holds the black leather in its foremaw.

  "-have a warrant?" Matecca asked, and tried her iciest glare.

  "Port jurisdiction, lady." Officer Wilcox, according the tag on his black uniform, shrugged.

  "No warrant needed," his partner added.

  "Gambo put you up to this?" Matecca cocked her head, folded her arms. They looked at her chest and grinned.

  "Who?" Wilcox glanced at his partner. They laughed.

  "An assault took place last night." Wilcox strained a thick neck to peer over Matecca through the brightly lit door. "Right here."

  "You must be joking." Her ears still rang from the band's newest song, "Money Grubbin' Woman"; she hated that one.

  "Not when it comes to the Taltos. The Treaty of Alliance now makes their safety imperative, sister," Wilcox said.

  "A Talto here?" Damn that Jason, Matecca thought, but a good band was hard to find, especially on what she could pay. "This look like a Hee-Haw hangout to you guys?"

  "Looks like a biom pit," the second officer laughed. "Smells like one too."

  "We know it happened here. The Talto wouldn't file a report but its crechepriest did." Wilcox fingered a stunclub. "Now move. We're looking for your band."

  Matecca sighed, slumped her shoulders, and stepped aside. The officers started into the bar. She didn't follow. She could still see Wilcox's hefty backside when a bottle zipped past his head.

  Matecca ran for the back door. Just past the comer, something wrapped around her. Her black-gloved fist lashed back, connected. A tight grip twisted her wrist. Going for her bra knife, Matecca slipped out of the glove-

  Bardog howls. The glove dissolves before Bardog can taste anymore. It looks up from the steps, along the wall. It sniffs the air. A cigarette, not half done, lies by the corner. Good flavor there, maybe familiar? Bardog plops off the stairs to find out.

  Aaahhh, the flavor thickens. Bardog noses the cigarette then sucks the stub into its foremaw. But the parking lot isn't done yet and the bar is filthy. Whole lotta guilt going on.

  -Jason sucked in a mouthful of smoke hoping it would kill the aftertaste of teargas that still clogged his sinuses. He glanced at his watch, almost five. The riot had
been over since two and still no sign of Matecca. He pressed deeper into the shadows.

  It wasn't like her to leave the bar, especially not with so much trouble. The place was her life, her heart, and her soul.

  "Now I'm wishing I was a damn bar." He scowled at the building. "I'd buy the place if I had the cash."

  A launch plume flared. Jason scratched his scarred cheek and marveled as the mighty Los Frisco towers mirrored the launch. Once he'd ridden the launchers, a flashy way to a life of wealth.

  He could jam on a Fendercaster, but not a launcher. He'd been good, just not good enough to calculate escape trajectories on the fly when a boostpak failed. His scars itched. Now disfigured and broke, he was lucky to be alive.

  Where was Matecca? She was the best of everything. Man, he would ride her like a launcher; play her like a Fendercaster, and the music they'd make as they soared, better than Blues...

  A black limousine pulled into the parking lot. Gravel popped beneath its tires. He inched around the building, hugging the shadows. No back up on this gig. Dirtman was home, nursing a broken rib. Freddie got slammed and wouldn't be out until his old lady made bail.

  The limo stopped. A side door opened; light flashed, filtered through tinted windows. Muffled laughter, all too human in its meanness, floated over the lot. A dark bundle hit the ground, flopped once, and lay still. The bright dot of a cigarette arced past, bounced on the tarmac.

  The limo peeled into the night, a launch plume highlighting its chrome fenders. Jason stared at the bundle, only a dark blob on the glittering tarmac.

  Matecca?" He dropped his cigarette and ran-

  Bardog rises unable to help itself. Plenty to eat right here, but it pads across the parking lot on the memory of Jason's heels.

  More than just eating. Flavors! Rich Flavors of memory, zesty Flavors of doing things besides eating. Its snout lengthens and snuffles over the sparse gravel.

  There, a smudge, gooey, brightly Flavored, right where Jason saw the bundle. Bardog's Little Tongue flicks out.

  "-Please Miss Lady, please just listen." Glib held on, hoping Matecca would stop struggling. Its dorsal nostrils still smarted where she'd smacked it; a thick dollop of sap oozed and bubbled with every breath.

  Glib held her in the shadows, moved softly away from the spotlights and sirens. Voices shouted from the bar. A chair flew through the window, showering glass down on them. Glib pulled its tentacle from her mouth.

  "You!" Matecca shrieked. Her foot sank into Glib's torso; pain throbbed up its nerve bundles.

  "We can escape," Glib managed. "Then I must tell you of Bobbibrown's..."

  The female's fingers raked his skin nearly catching an ocular. Three loud pops echoed over the parking lot. Fragrantly scented clouds enveloped them. The female burst into tears, shuddering in its tentacles.

  Glib hurried towards its battered Triduece Coupe. Just as it reached the door, Matecca delivered a splendidly vicious kick to its nostrils. Her high heel slammed into the car with enough force to rock the vehicle.

  The Eternal Frank bobbed on the dashboard, one hand held high in the holy pot-mitten; the other cradled the talisman Fendercaster. Glib took it for a sign of approval; the rhythm of its rocking matched the panting of Glib's lung sacs. Now if it could just fit the female into the car and depart, maybe Matecca would let it explain. Why wouldn't she listen to Bobbibrown's offer? So disorganized, it decided, no wonder her bar was a dump. At least she wouldn't get arrested...

  A black limo pulled up. A door opened. Pain shocked through Glib's torso. It staggered against the car banging Matecca into the side. Her nails raked Glib's ocular igniting a bright hazy red just before a curtain of blackness-

  A confused tingling fills Bardog's maw. Its Big Tongue stiffens, lengthening out to prod the tarmac. Some dim memory of this from before the bar, before Bernie of the Tinkering Hands. After a moment, Big Tongue droops and retracts. Bardog shakes its head, puzzled. Only grayness before Bernie; nothing to remember. Sadness, dimly tasted, seeps through Bardog. A haunting need to do something that it can't remember. There, a cigarette butt!

  Bardog hunkers down, pokes the butt, and extends its snout. What will this bring? A gold band encircles the tan paper. Never tried one of these before.

  -Gambo roared with laughter as his limo sped away. "You Hee-Haw loving bitch!"

  "Watch your mouth." The woman across from him spat, pushed herself as far from the limp alien as the car allowed. Her eyes widened, almost luminous in the limo's gloom; she stared at the creature. "Jesus, you kill it?"

  "I didn't do anything." Gambo sat back, let the seat cradle him, and admired the rip in her blouse. "That's Bullson's forte."

  "Aww, Mr. Gambo," Bullson's bashful voice came from the driver seat.

  "Shut up," he answered. No point in telling her that Bullson had used a stunner. He grinned at Matecca. "It's ever so romantic, if somewhat disgusting, that you're concerned about your boyfriend."

  "I ought to slap you," Matecca said. "The damn thing tried to abduct me."

  "Oh please." Gambo smoothed his hair. "That only happens in vids. The Taltos are too religious for mischief."

  "What's that have to do with the price of beer?" Matecca finally noticed his eyes and fumbled with her blouse.

  "I'm not quite sure." He smiled at her, such delightful modesty for a tramp. "But I'm getting closer to finding out."

  "So find out. Go ahead. But let me out. My place of business is in shambles."

  "That's what I wanted to talk to you about." Gambo carefully put his hands on his knees so as not to disturb the crease in his slacks, and gave her his most sincere look. "I'd like to buy you out."

  "I'd rather sleep with Hee-Haw here." Matecca glared back at him.

  "Mr. Gambo," Bullson broke in. "If we dump the Hee-Haw at the bar won't the police find it? And if your little friend here isn't around, who they gonna figure is responsible?"

  "Why Bullson, that's quite clever." He stared at the back of his bodyguard's head with new respect. I should have thought of that myself, Gambo decided. Five years ago, he would have, but lately the rackets seemed so dull. How he longed for something different.

  Something clean with life's bright spark. The placid peacefulness of a park. With country air, the song of a lark...

  "It's blackmail," Matecca said.

  "Or murder." Bullson chuckled. "Mr. Gambo wants Broken Dreams, girl. Otherwise, you or the Hee-Haw, someone gets dumped."

  Gambo shook his head and opened his eyes. Had he been daydreaming again? "Hold on now." He flicked a nonexistent speck from his lapel. "Just hear me out-"

  The butt dwindles to liquid nothingness and slides down its throat. Bardog stares at the tarmac and moans. The more the Flavors connect the stronger they get. Spicy with needs, pungent with desires.

  This Flavor has become so... much... more! Why hasn't Bardog noticed this before? No memories. Only little Flavors, no more than mere tastes, dull and gray as tarmac, that never seem to go anywhere.

  But this new Flavor, Bardog stops and tries to think. It's like... bandnoise. Glib calls it heavenly; Jason calls it... Blues.

  Bardog rocks back on its haunches. It stares at the parking lot with a fresh eye. Bandnoise changes, not quite the same every night. And if bandnoise can change, can Flavor?

  Jason changes the bandnoise. Who can change the Flavor?

  Leaving the lot, Bardog ambles up the steps and squeezes through the biom door. All the little tastes are so distracting. But this new Flavor, it's more than something in the maw; Bardog wants to chew on this.

  Bandnoise? Coming from downstairs. Soft and tinny, not like the usual bandnoise. Bardog cocks its head. Bandnoise from the basement. This has never happened before. Bardog oozes down the stairs.

  Traces of the Flavor tingle on the air. Bardog finds a place beneath the stairs. It waits; it watches. When they leave, one helping the other, Bardog comes out.

  A little triangular plastic piece, white with gold lettering, lies on the flo
or. Bardog sucks it in. It's Jason's, and there, there's the Flavor!

  "-never heard of him." Jason shook his head, frowning at the damned Hee-Haw. It lay on the bunk that made up half of Matecca's cramped office. He eased the Fendercaster onto his knee and tried a G-minor riff.

  "From Him begat the Mothers, who in one of their many incarnations called forth Joe's Garage ," Glib explained. The creature squirmed, excitedly writhing into a sitting position. "Then came Thing-Fish, and finally the great and wondrous Yellow Shark . The power of His music, His heavenly solos, the divine Inspiration of His melodies foretold the universe, time past, present, even future."

  Jason decided the Talto looked a little better now, not like when he'd first found it. He strummed a few major chords from the Fendercaster, grinned at the Hee-Haw's sudden intake of breath. "So what's all this got to do with the price of beer?"

  "Everything! Broken Dreams lies upon the ancient ground. A hundred years ago, here stood the Fillmore West. Triumphant concerts blossomed from this very spot, many of His finest."

  "And you think Gambo knows this? He knows about Frank Zappa?"

  "Soon he does. For Bobbibrown, our crechepriest, approached him. Bobbibrown too would see this relic resurrected. I sought to make the offer but no one would listen. Now Bobbibrown will try a human envoy. Gambo-"

  The plastic melts into a savory film in Bardog's maw. Bardog whines, and snuffles around. Up on the bunk, there, another lump of goo. Bardog noses it, then slurps it in. Careful not to eat too fast, this one also has the Flavor.

  -The pain in his craw still seemed as nothing to the agony in Glib's heartring. It studied the human, the long tendrilled hair, dark with dirt, the banded scars that marred the creature's face, making this Jason look more like a fish than a mammal.

  Only the hands, as they touched the Fendercaster, only the hands poised upon the frets with the delicate grace of a proper tentacle. Had The Eternal Frank's hands once looked so?

  "We've got to find her," Jason said. The chord he strummed sent shivers down Glib's nerve tubes.