redpaul79
Beitritt: 24. November 2007
Letzte Anmeldung: vor 20 Stunden
Gesehene Videos: 15.364
Abonnenten: 67
Kanalaufrufe: 4.527
Into your little brain
No, it's not rocket science
We've got one mind to live
And that's all you get
So spend it all
Meet me, and have regrets
Now by the way
You're looking scary
Eyes of disappointment
This will be the first
Ending of your last day
You will realize that this
World is filled with hate
Somewhere or other down the road
You can't believe you see me
With your own eyes
You think twice and realize
It's me from the past
You killed me back then
But I'm here now
Coming back up the highway
You're about to be going my way
Are you hallucinating?
Are you not?
You see me
I'm walking right by you
You rub your eyes again
But everyone is gone
And you're the only one
That I can see
'Cause you deserve me
I am the one that you
Had killed before
Back then, you know
You still carry the guilt
—Wes Miles, "One Mind"
e-mail: rednightvirus99@yahoo.com
(((Canyon City))) No rain for three months. I was sitting in my office, in the heart of filth-encrusted Canyon City, watching the clock, the window, and the fly paper. This fat, ugly, noisy son of a whore was slowly circling the long, curled-up yellow strip overhead. Already a dozen of his comrades were stuck, buzzing twitching or lifeless on the various pieces of tape. But this bastard was wary. Once in awhile he'd descend and loop around my head, and I'd snatch at him, but he could get damn quick when he needed to. I was keeping an eye on things. I took a hit from my quart of bourbon and looked out the window. Things certainly weren't getting any prettier out there. The heat was making everything lazy, and stupid. The phone rang, giving me a jolt. I took another hit, picked it up. It was a woman's voice. She was talking in a thick Eastern European accent. She said she wanted her husband shot. Get fucked, I said, and hung up. It rang again after a moment of shocked silence. I unplugged the phone immediately. I heard a third ring, in the bureau next door, and I looked up. The fat black fly was stuck. I took a hit of whiskey. I looked at him there awhile, buzzing, wings beating helplessly. I enjoyed it for a minute, but then I started feeling sorry for the poor little son of a bitch. It just seemed sort of sad, somehow, seeing him stuck there, little six legs wiggling, helpless. I had another sip of whiskey, and started trying to unstick him. The whiskey on my fingers burned him, and his papery little wings just peeled right off. I finally got him off the gluey paper, but now he was a fucked up, wingless little pipsqueak, there on my desk. I had to put him out of his misery, slamming my palm down like some cheap god. I went to the lavatory and washed my hands. Oh well, I didn't really give a rat's dick. I had a twinge in my ass hole. Somehow I'd fucked up a muscle in my sphincter, or some shit. I applied some sharkliver ointment and washed my hands again. Joe-Bob had just come back from McDonald's over in Canyon Center. I didn't want nothing but a Coke that day. I wasn't hungry, and I was getting a head ache.
Billy-Ray and Bubba-James came over and got their burgers. Billy-Ray was pissed off they'd screwed him out of his mustard and onions, giving him pickles and ketchup instead. While they stuffed their faces I went out for a cigarette. I walked around the corner and found a green Chinese restaurant with a crescent shaped dragon on the window. But when I stepped into the joint this smell hits my nose like someone just consumed an entire raw chicken with six cloves of garlic and then puked it up all over the place. I hit the street. I walked back to the office and went into my storage closet, wanting to record my thoughts on my tape-recorder. But the entire closet was packed with useless stacks of paper. I examined one. Old receipts and documents and statements, useless trash. I must've told those Goddamned numbskulls to get rid of it three months ago. I summoned them. Joe-Bob was still chewing his burger, slowly, savoring the meat, Billy-Ray and Bubba-James eyeing it greedily. I thought I told you all to clear this rubbish out of here. Joe-Bob nodded, looked down, shamed. You two, grab a stack each, and you, show 'em where to put it—The incinerator. The two simpleminded youths each hoisted a massive, tilting stack in their arms, completely obscuring their sight, and rushed down the stairs, tripping over eachother, and they went tumbling, the documents and bills and letters flying everywhere. I rushed out into the hall. God, damn it! You slovenly, incompetent simps! Go get some trash sacks and pick this shit up, right now! Bubba James had smashed his nose in good, blood was dribbling all over the white papers. Billy-Ray slipped in it and went flying, smearing red blood everywhere. Old Joe-Bob just stood there at the top of the stairs, watching, chewing the last bite of his beef-burger sandwich. Clean this Christing mess up in five minutes or you're all FIRED! I shrieked, my voice distorting with the fury. I slammed and locked my office door, and sat back down behind my desk. The sun was going under, a violent wash of orange blazing clouds erupting over the horizon. I stared at the dead flies.
Land: Großbritannien und Nordirland
Beruf: Music Writing Art Psychedelics
Schulbildung: Salvia Cannabis Nitrous DPH DXM
Interessen und Hobbys: (((Slow Tejano Horns))) Well, I had a few cigarettes left, but I couldn't stand the thought of smoking one until I'd eaten something—Anything. I dug into my pockets and counted my coins. 85 cents. Nothing could be bought for 85 cents. Not even a box of fucking Cracker Jack. Forget about a cheeseburger, for Christ's sakes. I desperately wanted to abolish the detestful smell of the ceaseless rush-hour exhaust with a Camel Turkish Gold, but my stomach was already dissolving. It made a deep, pitiful squelching noise and dumped more neutralized stomach acid into my bowels. It was actually beginning to torment me, and I felt faint. Not quite all there. I decided I'd swipe some pricey, delicious item from the supermarket on McDowell. Turning right, into the smoldering ember evening light filtering through a vapor of petroleum fumes, I chewed up an antacid tablet. My throat and stomach felt like a big burning twisting slug writhing in salts. I spotted an ancient Coke machine in the distance, glowing like a beacon, and I realized that I did have enough smash for a sodapop. It stood outside a dilapidated tire and lube joint. I got my coins ready, weaving my way to the machine through toppling stacks of bald tires. Some charcoal-faced bums had a fire burning in a steel barrel, camped out in the alley between the auto shop and a massive brick wall surrounding a private country-club. I dropped the coins in, two of my last three quarters on earth. Clunk. An unexpected little door popped open, revealing a real glass bottle. Icy cold, the curvaceous glass frosting up immediately in the broiling summer air. I could hear the bums laughing and shouting from the golf course, where they were apparently running wild. Soon the police would likely arrive, wielding awesome firepower, and drive them away. I made my way back to the street, sipping the Coke. The sun had gone down behind the skyscrapers on Central Avenue, leaving the city sunk in blurry black shadows. It was so bloody hot. What the fuck had those bums been doing with that fire burning? They must've been cooking something. Some wild animal (A sewer rat?) In that alleyway. I decided to smoke a cigarette after all, as my stomach was feeling somewhat better. The wind kept blowing out my lighter, so I ducked into the front-stairs doorway of a squat little tenement of yellowish stone bricks. A small, shaven-headed Mexican boy was sitting up there on the steps, staring at me as I flicked my Bic. There was something wrong with this damn lighter. A defective flint mechanism or something. An aroma was emanating downward through the stairshaft, like boiled chicken and onions. My stomach squelched again, as I struck impotent sparks. I Finally got a light, and went on towards the supermarket. My tobacco smoke streaked slowly westward in the slowly pushing wind. It was one of those old-style grocer's, with non-retarded baggers, and guys wearing red aprons constandy pushing tremendous flat mops through the aisles. They even had an awesome liquor section, with wine racks and potted plants. I grabbed two of the big Fruit and Nut bars, spun a slow 360, scanning for floorwalkers, and the chocolate bars disappeared in the blink of an eye. I stepped right through the door with a calm, pleased smile on my face, back into the blue twilight madness. I walked west for awhile, crossed McDowell road again, and started towards the library. My stomach rumbled once more, not letting up even now. It was blind, and knew nothing but hunger. I took the first bar from my pocket and began peeling off the grand gold foil wrapping. My teeth sank deliciously into the soft, smooth chocolate, encountering the crunchy almonds and chewy raisins embedded within. My stomach started purring like a stroked kitten, squelching and writhing in peristalsis. I'd already eaten about half of the first chocolate bar by the time I got past the library. I cut around behind a Wash-O-Matic, turned back toward Central as I reached the sidewalk, heading north. Under the streetlights the whores stood, posturing and scanning for cops. I passed a bar full of Mexicans, sitting in a sort of somnambulent stasis, drinking yellow beer. Slow Tejano horns warbling from a small radio somewhere. I had about two or three miles to go, and I'd already smoked my last cigarette. I felt hungry again, so I started in on the other Cadbury bar. The blackness of night was bringing all sorts of weirdos and madmen out. One guy I spotted on 7th Street, mercifully on the other side of the road—A hulking, skeletal wretch with a mop of filthy black hair entirely obscuring his face, somnambulently pushing a filth-encrusted and clattering shopping cart (and seemingly leaning on it for support) full of aluminum cans. Barefoot, shirtless, dressed in nothing but a ragged pair of black trousers. Pushing the cart along the sidewalk with the lurching, zombified walk of the living dead.
Filme und Shows: (((Flaming Banjo))) This town is getting to be a drag. My soul feels all dried up. I need to see the sea. Smoking green beetles in Tombstone Arizona. If I could only find a motherfucking $10 it'd be a Goddamned miracle. I end up crossing 17th street, get on a bus and now I'm in Mexico, I think. While I tried to locate a motel, I found a hook-hand in the gutter, next to a scrap of pepperoni pizza. Looking up, I saw a chicken-wings and greasy-pie joint. Scooping out my glass eye and extracting my emergency $5, I went in and bought half a pizza and a bottle of stout. I was just about ready to pass out, so I stretched myself out on a broad low shelf in back of the pizza oven. It was nice and warm. In the morning they gave me a cup of coffee and let me use their pissoir. By the end of the week I'd gained 3 pounds, eating pizza crusts on the sly, plus all the free beer I could guzzle. I finally located a beetle dealer in this town. He says I'll have to wait until thursday. I've already chewed off all my toenails, and huffing ammonia is giving me no kicks at all. Can't sleep, can't enjoy butter and sugar sandwiches. I need to see Citizen Kane again. I'm sure there's got to be some way that I can get myself fired. Thing is, I don't even know what my job is. When I get out of Spain or wherever this is I sure will fall down and kiss the sweet grey cement of the good old USA. I'll have to find another job though. On the spur of the moment, I desperately start to walk the streets in search of a whore. I find a $10 in my shoe and buy a glass of bacon-and-egg milkshake. I walk over to the train tracks and now it seems I'm in Kansas. I find a job as a trash picker but this shack where several hundred bums have excreted is no kind of home. If I could just find 50 cents it'd be a Goddamned miracle. I need to see the fucking ocean. So I started walking again. It was night. But I couldn't think like I used to. Everything was now in past tense or something. I got busy pumping sewage for the Heroic Waste Disposal Company and one day I woke up and realized I'd been working there 12 years. I'd already become co-owner of the shit hole. Now I couldn't even speak of a present tense. Septic waste 24 hours. So when it comes time to clean the poop deck I says I'm out of here. I couldn't remember any phone numbers so I just dialled 0. The lady says I've got to pick a number so I just make one up. A third-person toilet-train touches down at the Federal Trades Union. The passengers swarm off, trampling a Turkmenistani to malformation. I'm just about to flee the scene when a talent-scout spots me and now we're talking business. He says I play a mean banjo but he don't even give me a dime. His talismanical talking-down turns me off straightaway. Tall stories, talking shop, eyes like bubbling rubber. He takes out a tape-measure and tries to find out the circumferance of my cranium. He has a tartar-sauce stain on his necktie. He smells like a taxidermist's shed. He takes three teaspoonfuls of cocaine every hour. He has signed six top-10 teenybopper acts this year alone. He says I could be the next of the thick-witted, thin-skinned, telemarketed, teleprompted, testosterone-injected thingamabobs you see on TV. He thoughtfully thrashes out a three-handed contract. His eyes are two dollar signs. He grows tight-lipped, tight-fisted, tilt-hammers of cashflow working in his brain. He is getting tired of my time-wasting. Enough of this tiresomeness. This toffee-nosed geek is getting on my nerves. His title-holder's titillations bore me. He is tongue-tied by my tomfooleries. He starts resorting to tear-jerking tergiversations. Exhibitionistically shrieking, drawling dwarfish fealties. Threatening termination of the contract. His thought-wave is nauseating. The utter tonelessness, the reek of toothpowder. I can't stand it another second, so I sign. He squeals with delight. He looks like he's had six transfusions of oxblood—No more translucence. I'm a little worried. Trademarking signed over to the trade unions. His transparency is astounding—Treasonously, traitorously trampling on my rights as a free artist already—Tub-thumping on trivialities. He gives me some tuning forks and tells me to get busy practicing my banjo. He says he has to meet some transsexuals. He is their travel-agent. He gives me 10 cents and takes off on the turbo-diesel express for God-knows-where. I start to wonder if this whole thing was all in his head. Or mine.
Musik: NIRVANA R.E.M. BECK THE BEATLES THE DOORS TOOL THE WHITE STRIPES SMASHING PUMPKINS RADIOHEAD BOB DYLAN BLACK SABBATH JIMI HENDRIX EXPERIENCE NEIL YOUNG AND CRAZY HORSE CREEDENCE CLEARWATER REVIVAL JOHN LENNON DAVID BOWIE THE CURE THE RAMONES LED ZEPPELIN MORPHINE BOB MARLEY AND THE WAILERS THE CARS LAMB OF GOD THE CLASH N.W.A. MINISTRY NINE INCH NAILS JANE'S ADDICTION ALICE IN CHAINS THE FLAMING LIPS SYSTEM OF A DOWN CYPRESS HILL CAN PRIMUS AC/DC NEW ORDER TRICKY SUBLIME SCORPIONS BEASTIE BOYS U2 GUNS 'N' ROSES SOUNDGARDEN STONE TEMPLE PILOTS MERCURY REV CREAM PINK FLOYD LUDWIG VON BEETHOVEN STEVIE RAY VAUGHN AND DOUBLE TROUBLE JAMES BROWN ROY ORBISON RUSH ZZ TOP FUGAZI JOY DIVISION TOM WAITS MILES DAVIS SONIC YOUTH THE ROLLING STONES JOHNNY CASH BILLY CORGAN ELTON JOHN WAR STEELY DAN THE WHO BUDDY HOLLY AND THE CRICKETS APHEX TWIN THOM YORKE CORNERSHOP HELMET CHEAP TRICK THIN LIZZY THE BLACK CROWES PEARL JAM THE ALLMAN BROTHERS BAND YEAH YEAH YEAHS PAUL MCCARTNEY PORNO FOR PYROS ERIC CLAPTON PETER GABRIEL HOWLIN' WOLF THE B-52S THELONIOUS MONK WILLY NELSON MEATLOAF ISAAC HAYES PUBLIC ENEMY GEORGE HARRISON STEREOLAB THE MEAT PUPPETS JOE SATRIANI ELVIS COSTELLO AND THE ATTRACTIONS DEF LEPPARD ENNIO MORRICONE DANZIG AEROSMITH QUEEN HANK WILLIAMS LOUIS ARMSTRONG ANGELO BADALAMENTI DEFTONES METALLICA OZZY OSBOURNE JUDAS PRIEST PRINCE HENRY ROLLINS BUILT TO SPILL LITTLE RICHARD ALICE COOPER THE VELVET UNDERGROUND DIRE STRAITS WHITE ZOMBIE STONE ROSES RAY CHARLES BILLY IDOL CHARLES MINGUS PANTERA BLUES TRAVELER ALAN PARSONS PROJECT THE STROKES THE RED HOT CHILI PEPPERS DICK DALE CAPTAIN BEEFHEART AND THE MAGIC BAND THE NEW YOK DOLLS THE FALL THE GRATEFUL DEAD ENYA FRANKIE VALLI AND THE FOUR SEASONS THE CHURCH MOTLEY CRUE OASIS SANTANA TOM PETTY AND THE HEART BREAKERS MAHAVISHNU ORCHESTRA THE CRAMPS DANNY NORIEGA STEVE MILLER BAND ELECTRIC LIGHT ORCHESTRA SADE MISFITS DIO NAZARETH RESIDENTS CHRIS ISAAC ROBERT JOHNSON BLACK FLAG JOHN MELLENCAMP PROCOL HARUM BJORK MEGADETH ORNETTE COLEMAN LIGHTNING BOLT MODEST MOUSE RUN-DMC WEEZER VAN HALEN PAUL SIMON ANNIE LENNOX SONNY ROLLINS VAN MORRISON DURAN DURAN BUFFALO SPRINGFIELD YES THE TRAVELING WILBURIES JONI MITCHELL SLY AND THE FAMILY STONE BLUE OYSTER CULT STEPPENWOLF WOODIE GUTHRIE KRAFTWERK JETHRO TULL PORTISHEAD CROSBY STILLS AND NASH DIGITAL UNDERGROUND FRANK SINATRA SNOOP DOGG MIDNIGHT OIL CARPENTERS OUTKAST BUZZCOCKS CAT POWER LYNYRD SKYNYRD THE BAND JOAN JETT AND THE BLACKHEARTS BOSTON TUPAC SHAKUR THE ANIMALS WUTANG CLAN CHUCK BERRY LINK WRAY BYRDS MARILYN MANSON LEONARD COHEN BLONDIE BAUHAUS BREEDERS LOVE AND ROCKETS DAVE BRUBECK JANIS JOPLIN JOHANN SEBASTIAN BACH VIOLENT FEMMES FILTER CECIL TAYLOR YO LA TENGO CANNED HEAT JOHN FOGERTY HUM STYX HANSON DAVE MATHEWS BAND STING RAVI SHANKAR MINUTEMEN SINEAD O'CONNOR THE HIVES DR. DRE JACKSON FIVE BLIND MELON JOURNEY GRAND FUNK RAILROAD JAMES TAYLOR KORN BILLIE HOLIDAY LOS LOBOS B.B. KING INXS JOE STRUMMER AND THE MESCALEROS ELVIS PRESLEY THE PIXIES EAGLES CHRIS RHEA TRAFFIC NEIL DIAMOND JOHN MCLAUGHLIN SLIM HARPO BEACH BOYS DANIEL JOHNSTON MOUNTAIN DEVO SAUSAGE LUCIANO PAVAROTTI SEX PISTOLS JOHN COLTRANE MAX ROACH THE JEFFERSON AIRPLANE NOTORIOUS B.I.G. JIMMY SCOTT BO DIDDLEY BAD BRAINS FATS DOMINO THE CALL THE FACES BIG AUDIO DYNAMITE SCREAMIN' JAY HAWKINS OLD DIRTY BASTARD JAMES GANG STRAY CATS DONOVAN NAT KING COLE JERRY LEE LEWIS BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN AND THE E-STREET BAND FREE JOHN LEE HOOKER UB40 CURTIS MAYFIELD TEN YEARS AFTER PHIL COLLINS THE MAMAS AND THE PAPAS CHICAGO MICHAEL JACKSON TINY TIM MOGWAI FRANK ZAPPA STEVE EARLE ROMANTICS CHARLIE PARKER THE TALKING HEADS JAYHAWKS MUDDY WATERS BILLY JOEL TWISTED SISTER BEEGEES QUIET RIOT DEEP PURPLE THE KINKS MASSIVE ATTACK SCOTT JOPLIN SOCIAL DISTORTION THE CHEMICAL BROTHERS RAGE AGAINST THE MACHINE DEPECHE MODE MY BLOODY VALENTINE ICE CUBE IGGY POP MOTORHEAD LES CLAYPOOL FOO FIGHTERS SIOUXSIE AND THE BANSHEES STEVIE WONDER WOLFGANG AMADEUS MOZART THOMAS DOLBY HERBIE HANCOCK PARLIAMENT FUNKADELIC GENESIS (Painters) SALVADOR DALI PABLO PICASSO VINCENT VAN GOGH MAX ERNST CARAVAGGIO RALPH STEADMAN MATI KLARWEIN FRANCISCO GOYA BRIAN FROUD MICHELANGELO FRANCIS BACON JAN VERMEER ALEX GREY SIMON BISLEY PHIL HALE EL GRECO CHET ZAR REMBRANDT BARRON STOREY HIERONYMUS BOSCH EDVARD MUNCH H.R. GIGER LEONARDO DA VINCI (Cartoonists) FRANK MILLER ROBERT CRUMB PAUL POPE DANIEL CLOWES TAIYO MATSUMOTO DAVE SIM GARY LARSON PAUL CHADWICK GAHAN WILSON JAE LEE SAM KIETH MASAMUNE SHIROW MIKE ALLRED CHARLES SCHULTZ MARC HEMPEL MIKE MIGNOLA (Directors) DAVID LYNCH QUENTIN TARANTINO TIM BURTON OLIVER STONE JIM JARMUSCH MARTIN SCORSESE TERRY GILLIAM (TV) THE TWILIGHT ZONE MONTY PYTHONS FLYING CIRCUS MYSTERY SCIENCE THEATER 3000 SEINFELD THE SOPRANOS SOUTH PARK (Actors) JACK NICHOLSON JOHNNY DEPP CRISPIN GLOVER JULIETTE LEWIS ROBERT DE NIRO CLINT EASTWOOD DENNIS HOPPER GARY BUSEY (Speakers) STEVEN WRIGHT MITCH HEDBERG CHRIS ROCK TIMOTHY LEARY TERENCE MCKENNA CHARLES MANSON HOWARD STERN
Bücher: FRANZ KAFKA WILLIAM S. BURROUGHS STEPHEN KING SAMUEL BECKETT HUNTER S. THOMPSON CHARLES BUKOWSKI LOUIS-FERDINAND CELINE THOMAS PYNCHON JAMES JOYCE SYLVIA PLATH NIKOLAI GOGOL ANNE RICE ROALD DAHL TRUMAN CAPOTE ALDOUS HUXLEY EDGAR ALAN POE WILLIAM FAULKNER KURT VONNEGUT ALLEN GINSBERG JACK KEROUAC JEAN GENET FRANK HERBERT HENRY MILLER FYODOR DOSTOYEVSKY RAY BRADBURY KNUT HAMSUN HERMAN MELVILLE H.P. LOVECRAFT GUNTER GRASS CARLOS CASTANEDA ALBERT HOFMANN WILLIAM GOLDING GABRIEL GARCIA MARQUEZ PAUL BRIDGEWATER: (((The Machine))) Since I got the machine put in, everything's got a new kick to it. A new angle. I wake up in my civicube, feeling like toasted dogshit, my fried brains crying out in bitter protest when the alarm goes off. I lurch into the kitchen, guzzle cold coffee and smoke two long joints, plus a turkish cirarette. The grafted neurons in the left side of my head are buzzing by this time, and I'm ready, itching to plug in. I log on to the Net, plug the input jack in behind my left earlobe, and click SEND. My spine twitches, a mild epileptic jerk, and I fall back in my chair, my natural right eye rolling back till nothing shows but the blood-shot white. The left eye has been replaced by a highly polished steel ball with a glowing violet disk at its center. The disk dilates to a pin-point, the purple light momentarily pulsing to near white in unison with the yellow indicator light on my hard-drive. The Camel turkish butt falls from my fingers to the fireproof carpet. The vacuume-bot swiftly hones in and sucks it up. When you hit the ether-net it's like a fucking million stars exploding live inside your mind's eye and the entire universe lights up like carnival wheel and your neurons connect without limits to a million light-speed circuits ad-infinitum. Then the machine takes over completely and all sensation is lost except the input, the news, what is happening, all world events of the past 24 hours instantly downloads into your cerebellum, all emotion is lost as all useless interference patterns are cencelled, and you become one with the Net, a single cell in synch with all the other mech-heads on Earth, Moon and Mars. When I came back, the first time, and the medics told me they'd had to put in a cerebral clone-tissue implant to save my life, they'd had to boot me up just get me even halfway conscious, forget about cognizant. And they'd already pumped me so full of drugs by then, the fucking machine was all I really was. And I had no idea of the cold fire sizzling numb hell I'd be subjected to upon waking every morning after that. But plugging in feels damn good, I'll give them that. Fact, I aint used any narco-caps since I got the machine put in. I pop the jack out of my head, light a cigarette. I buckle on my taser gun and suction down to street level. It's still dark, but the Chicken Hut is open 24 hours, so I stop in for a snack. The multiple conflicting voices of the chip in my brain were still a bit distracting, at this point, when I stepped into the Chicken Hut. Must've been about six weeks ago. I got in line at the counter and asked for a six piece box. The clerk stared at me like a diseased calf. The neck-mouse dangling obscenely from the wire-jack coming out of my shaven skull sure looked weird, I bet. And my steely left eye was damn creepy too, blinking on stand-by like a silent alarm. He nuked my chicken and handed me the box. I slid my debit card through the slot and sat down at a booth. The ceaseless traffic flying past on the 603 ramp was a dizzying spectacle. I clicked my neck-mouse and tuned in on the net's infinite waves of info. I was trying to locate a Chinese pimp who'd welched on a squeal deal. The names he'd provided were bunko, and he'd skipped town when the shit head narcs let him out of his cage to carry a wire into some crummy meet, probably a complete waste of time, but after my injury I figured I'd take it easy, complete this chicken-shit case, a piece of shit I wouldn't even wave my badge at under normal circumstances. But this was my first case using the machine—Hell, needing the machine. Face it, I reminded myself, You'd be a fucking cripple without it. Drooling in some mental ward. The bullets had taken out around a fifth of my natural brain tissue. The vamp-docs sucked out the blood clots and dead grey jelly, and filled the hole with fetus brains—the freshest. The specialist who put in the machine didn't get there till the next day—He was in Tokyo, doing the fourth ever brain transplant. The vamps kept me in a deep coma, but occasionally I'd get flashes of conciousness, the clone-fetus cells in my head crying out in primeval panic as they attached themselves to my brain's axons like a million writhing parasitic worms. The pain was incredible, accompanied by flashes of red light. I'd slip in and out of strange dreams—The bald faces of the murdering skin-heads melting into the bald faces of the slaughtered fetuses I was fusing with.
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