Souls rotten from the Orgasm Drug—Flesh shuddering from the Ovens—Prisoners of the earth, come out— Storm the studio.'
His plan called for total exposure—Wise up all the marks everywhere Show them the rigged wheel
— Storm the Reality Studio and retake the universe—The plan shifted and reformed as reports came in from his electric patrols sniffing quivering down streets of the earth—the reality film giving and buckling like a bulkhead under pressure—burned metal smell of interplanetary war in the raw noon streets swept by screaming glass blizzards of enemy flak.
'Photo falling—Word falling—Use partisans of all nations—Target Orgasm Ray Installations—
Gothenburg Sweden—Coordinates 8 2 7 6—Take Studio— Take Board Books—Take Death Dwarfs—Towers, open fire.'
Pilot K9 caught the syndicate killer image on a penny arcade screen and held it in his sight—Now he was behind it in it was it—The image disintegrated in photo flash of total recognition—Other image on screen—Hold in sight— Smell of burning metal in his head—'Pilot K9, you are cut off—
Back—Back—Back before the whole fucking shithouse goes up—Return to base immediately—
Ride music beam back to base—Stay out of that tune flak—All pilots ride Pan Pipes back to base.'
It was impossible to estimate the damage—Board Books destroyed—Enemy personnel decimated—
The message of total resistance on short wave of the world.
'Calling partisans of all nations—Shift linguals—Cut word lines—Vibrate tourists—Free doorways
—Photo falling—Word falling—Break through in Grey Room.'
Gongs of Violence
The war between the sexes split the planet into armed camps right down the middle line divides one thing from the other—And I have seen them all: The Lesbian colonels in tight green uniforms, the young aides and directives regarding the Sex Enemy from proliferating departments.
On the line is the Baby and Semen Market where the sexes meet to exchange the basic commodity which is known as the 'property'—Unborn properties are shown with a time projector. As a clear young going face flashes on the auction screen frantic queens of all nations scream: 'A doll! A doll!
A doll!' And tear each other to pieces with leopard claws and broken bottles— tobacco auction sound effects —Riots erupt like sandstorms spraying the market with severed limbs and bouncing heads.
Biological parents in most cases are not owners of the property. They act under orders of absentee proprietors to install the indicated stops that punctuate the written life script—With each Property goes a life script—Shuttling between property farmers and script writers, a legion of runners, fixers, guides, agents, brokers, faces insane with purpose, mistakes and confusion pandemic—Like a buyer has a first-class Property and a lousy grade B life script.
'Fuck my life script will you you cheap downgrade bitch!'
Everywhere claim-jumpers and time-nappers jerk the time position of a property.
'And left me standing there without a 'spare jacket' or a 'greyhound' to travel in, my property back in 1910 Panama—I don't even feel like a human without my property—How can I feel without fingers?'
The property can also be jerked forward in time and sold at any age—The life of advanced property is difficult to say the least: poison virus agents trooping in and out at all hours: 'We just dropped in to see some friends a population of patrols'—Strangers from Peoria waving quit claim deeds, skip tracers, collectors, claim-jumpers demanding payment for alleged services say: 'We own the other half of the property.'
'I dunno, me—Only work here—Technical Sergeant.'
'Have you seen Slotless City?'
Red mesas cut by time winds—A network of bridges, ladders, catwalks, cable cars, escalators and ferris wheels down into the blue depths—The precarious occupants in this place without phantom guards live in iron cubicles— constant motion on tracks, gates click open shut—buzzes, blue sparks, and constant breakage —(Whole squares and tiers of the city plunge into the bottomless void)—
Swinging beams of construction and blue flares on the calm intent young worker faces— People rain on the city in homemade gliders and rockets —Balloons drift down out of faded violet photos
—The city is reached overland by a series of trails cut in stone, suspension bridges and ladders intricately booby-trapped, wrong maps, disappearing guides—(A falling bureaucrat in blue glasses screams by with a flash of tin: '
Priests shriek for human sacrifices, gather partisans to initiate unspeakable rites until they are destroyed by counter pressures—Vigilantes of every purpose hang anyone they can overpower—
Workers attack the passer-by with torches and air hammers—They reach up out of manholes and drag the walkers down with iron claws— Rioters of all nations storm the city in a landslide of flame-throwers and Molotov cocktails—Sentries posted everywhere in towers open fire on the crowds at arbitrary intervals—The police never mesh with present time, their investigation far removed from the city always before or after the fact erupt into any cafe and machine-gun the patrons—The city pulses with slotless purpose lunatics killing from behind the wall of glass— A moment's hesitation brings a swarm of con men, guides, whores, mooches, script writers, runners, fixers cruising and snapping like aroused sharks—
(The subway sweeps by with a black blast of iron.)
The Market is guarded by Mongolian Archers right in the middle line between sex pressures jetting a hate wave that disintegrates violators in a flash of light— Everywhere posted on walls and towers in hovering autogyros these awful archers only get relief from the pressure by blasting a violator—
Screen eyes vibrate through the city like electric dogs sniffing for violations—
